Driven Over the Brink
by Bridget Weinstock
Summary: The fate of the Javelin touches off a heart-to-heart after the Christmas party at Fitzgerald's. That heart-to-heart touches off several more dominoes... Mostly WAFF, but a little bit lemon. (Not my characters, not my universe, just playtime over here. Reviewers adored!) COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: In Vino Veritas

"I loved her. I mean I really, really loved her, and now she's gone..."

"I know."

"And I'd only just got to know her..." the priest trailed off. His confidante nodded, understanding, and poured him a glass of wine. "She was so beautiful."

"Doesn't seem fair or logical, does it?"

"Kind of thing could shake a man's faith. At the very least make him question..."

Now the publican bit her tongue. She'd never lost a beloved car in such a devastating way, mind; more, she felt she was the absolute last person in Ballykea who should counsel this particular curate on a crisis of faith - in jest or otherwise. Too many conflicts of interest, there. So instead, she made her way round the bar, and took the seat beside him. She raised her glass: "To absent friends."

He raised his own with a sad smile. "And to yours."

She acknowledged this with a sigh and a nod. Truthfully, she'd almost forgotten the party she might have had, in light of the company she_ was_ keeping.

They sat a quiet moment, nursing their wine. Assumpta found herself possessed of an unwelcome urge to take his hand. She knew what happened when they touched, and she couldn't let it. She had to keep busy.

"Stay your leisure," she told him. "I'd better see to this mess."

"I can help with that. Might do me some good, get the Javelin off my mind."

"Not fool enough to turn you down." She passed him a damp bar towel.

"See, thing is," he said as he went after a gravy spill, "she was a beautiful car, sure, but she was more than that. She was a vote of confidence." Assumpta met his eyes, prompting him to continue. "She represented my earning someone's trust across a big divide; my getting through to someone I never thought I'd have a chance with."

They looked over their shoulders at one another, recognizing the extra potency of what had been said. He needed to add something that would dilute it. She waited.

"Do you think he'd be disappointed? That he's looking down now, shaking his fist?"

So much for a distraction. She collected a few dirty pint glasses. "I think Judge Bradley would see that it happened in the heat of the moment. That a life was saved. And it wasn't your fault, Peter."

His big green eyes had misted over. This was getting too bittersweet; she had to throw some sarcasm at it, fast.

"Besides, what grown man goes by 'Timmy,' anyway?"

Misfire. He was now openly weeping.

_Well, what am I supposed to do now?_ she wondered. The crime scene that was the dishes would have to wait, that much was clear. He was still clutching the bar towel; she pulled it away from him and, somehow emboldened, took his hand in her own.

"Hey, maybe the Javelin's in Heaven with him, now." _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. "Sorry, that was..."

"No, no, it's fine. No gospel support for the idea, but I like it."

"Don't be silly. I remember the kind of music you played in that car. 'Ride in the chariot to see my Lord,' and all that?"

He smiled, but his eyes stayed downcast.

The silences were getting too long, and she realised they were still holding hands. She let it go, though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Look, Peter, I'm...I'm glad you weren't in the car when it happened." _Oh, brilliant. Smack dab on the fence between caring too much and crudely insensitive. You should start a greeting card business_, she told herself.

He grimaced. "Trust an Irishwoman to cheer you up after a tragedy."

"Hey! Poured you a drink, didn't I?"

"Your people's answer to everything."

"Took to it well enough for an outsider." She indicated the empty wine glass. "Have another? Whole bottle to get through."

"Thought that was left from dinner?"

"Sure our friends would leave any wine over at Christmas dinner?" She refilled his glass. "Opened this one special for you. Priest perk."

"Never saw you offer Father Mac this kind of perk."

"Nor your parking-challenged seminarian. I play favourites; so sue me."

Again the kernel of truth in the middle of the joke was too big, too hard. She hoped it was his turn to make a smart remark and wash it down.

He was not, evidently, quite up to the task. "Favourites, you say?" His voice was hushed.

_Oh, the hell with it._ She'd keep pouring him wine; he might never remember. "Let's just say you have a way of earning trust across big divides. Getting through to people you thought you'd never..."

She couldn't do it. She refilled her own glass. Drinking at his speed now, was she? God help her.

"Never have a chance with," he finished.

She couldn't meet his eyes. "That's why you're a good priest," she whispered.

"Kathleen, Eamonn, and Father Mac might say otherwise."

"Sure you know better?"

"Not sure."

She looked up at him, willing him to explain.

"They wrap it up in subtle remarks about what a great curate he'll be someday, about how pleasant his accent is to the ear...but what they don't say, well..."

"What, that you reach out beyond the parish faithful? That you challenge people to make up their own minds? Make waves, push the envelope when doctrine doesn't go far enough to right a wrong? If they can't appreciate that, can't...cherish it, Peter, they're complete fools, and the hell with the lot of them." Was it true courage, or just the wine talking? She pressed on. "I've been telling you that from the beginning, have I not?"

"Don't butter me up with the pearls-before-swine argument, Assumpta."

Mixed metaphors - a sure sign he'd had enough to drink. She slammed down her glass.

"Don't flatter yourself thinking I would, Peter. You think I'm the kind to pass out unearned compliments - to clergy, no less? You think I'd blow sunshine up your arse? What would be in it for me?" Disproportionate? Perhaps. She didn't care. "You can't honestly believe you're unfit to hold a candle to some wet-behind-the-ears MacAnally relative who doesn't even understand the basics of a hand brake? Oh, but he knows how to use a rope! He speaks with a brogue! Only the landlady could possibly see any redeeming value in the curate from Manchester, and what on God's green earth would she know?!"

He said nothing. His eyes were tearing up again, but he was grinning.

"Did anyone ever tell you that when you get cross..." he chuckled and looked into his glass.

"What?!" Her dark eyes blazed, daring him to go on.

"...You take on a glow." He ducked the cracker she aimed at his head.

She did her best to look annoyed, but she was secretly pleased that his spirits had lifted. She marched into the kitchen with the tray of dirty pint glasses. To prove she meant it, she marched back to the bar and retrieved her glass and the wine bottle.

Over the running of the sink, she didn't hear his footsteps after her, or the door swinging open again behind her. By the time she looked up from the tea towel in her hand, he was standing right beside her. Close. Watching.

"Should have said thanks."

"Oh, what for?"

"All you said. About appreciation. About...me."

She shook her head. "Think nothing of it."

"We both know I'm not where I belong, don't we?"

Playing dumb was a last-ditch effort, a Hail Mary. She sighed and averted her eyes. "What, Ireland? Ballykea?"

"The priesthood."

She froze. So much for the Hail Mary.

"You've had a long day, Peter. It doesn't have to mean-"

"I mean it. I'm not where I belong." This time he said it slower, quieter, held her gaze in spite of her. "And you've always known; you never tried to break me, but you knew."

She felt the urge to say something, anything at all, to cover the thumping of her heart. Surely they could hear it all over County Wicklow. "I never tried to break you because you were the best I'd seen, Peter. Thought I made that clear a million times."

It was his turn for silence. She threw back another hearty gulp of wine.

"Hell, Peter, you know how I feel about the Church. I can't tell you if you belong in this vocation or not because I'm not sure they deserve you." She drained the sink and took a deep breath. "But if I were anything close to devout, I'd want your kind at the helm. Maybe that's why I drifted from the flock. Maybe I've always wanted what I couldn't have."

He looked at once devastated and elated. She realised the double meanings were going strong. How much truth serum would it take? She felt restless now. She pushed back into the barroom and he followed. They reclaimed the same seats from earlier.

There are some questions a person can only properly ask another when the two are alone together, when a fireplace is crackling nearby, and when both have a drink in hand. Assumpta realised this might be her best chance. "Look, if you don't belong where you are...where do you belong?"

He took a deep breath, searching the room as if he'd forgotten where he was, before finally meeting her gaze. He leaned in close. "Assumpta, I think I belong with-"

A knock at the pub door interrupted him. He deflated instantly.


	2. Chapter 2: When Half-Spent was the Night

Assumpta rose to answer.

"Timmy?"

The seminarian grinned from the doorway. "Sorry to trouble _you."_

"No trouble. Come on in. Is something the matter?" Assumpta wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a glass slamming down hard on the bar behind her.

"No, no, nothing wrong. Well...nothing...else wrong. Today. But, uh, yes, Father Clifford?"

A vein in Peter's forehead looked full to bursting as he swiveled to face his houseguest, but he had a look of measured civility on the bottom half of his face. Assumpta noticed the Christmas cracker clutched in his hand, though; it looked as though he was trying to draw blood from it.

Timmy pressed on. "Father, I realised I'd hung onto this...after I, er, drove your car..." He gingerly set a keyring on the bar in front of the curate. "So I had both sets of keys. I didn't want you locked out of your own place on Christmas." Peter only nodded, so Timmy attempted a joke. "I mean, assuming you were _planning on _coming home at some point."

Assumpta could certainly understand the temptation to provoke English people, to test the limits of their stiff upper lips, but this seemed either outright malicious or oblivious beyond reason. Classic MacAnally. She'd taken quite a shine to this young man just the day before, and ordinarily she'd have liked him all the better for his knack for bugging English priests, but now she found herself possessed of a primal urge to throw a spot of bottom-shelf gin in his face.

Peter picked up the key that no longer started any driveable car. He examined the metal in the soft light of the pub, turned over its small weight in his palm, felt it grow warm from his touch. His voice was remarkably steady given what he said next:

"Thank you, Timmy. As you've probably heard at the seminary, priests are strongly discouraged from up and murdering well-meaning people, so it'll be just a while yet before I stop back home. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, all right?"

The young man seemed to get the hint, such as it was. He smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, and made his exit into the cold night. The publican locked the door behind him and regarded her drinking companion from across the room.

"You know, my fire may be infamous, but your ice is downright stunning. You don't take on a glow, Peter, you...gleam."

This seemed to soften his posture a little, seemed to calm down the threat in that big forehead. "Good to know I've still got it."

"You were saying something before...?" He only shrugged and shook his head. Spell broken, she supposed. "Right. Well, if you remember, I'll be in the kitchen."

"'Sumpta, wait."

She turned in the doorway. "Hmm?"

"Thanks again for the vote of confidence."

"Mmmhmm."

"But when you say I get through to people..."

"Oh, for the love...is a compliment so rare you'll be making me rehash it all night, then?"

He was actually smiling. No, wait - crying again? She didn't know how much more of this whiplash she could take.

"Peter, one more mood swing tonight and you're barred 'til the Feast of Epiphany, clear?" The sarcasm was fading. The adoration under it was sticking out too much. Maybe if she filled his glass again...

"Assumpta, you asked me where I think I belong."

Busted. "Oh, yeah."

"Now, bear with me. If I were thinking about St. Joseph's every moment I spent with you, that would be a pretty good sign I was meant to be there. Yeah?"

"Are you?"

"No." He picked up the keyring and fiddled with it. "Quite the inverse, matter of fact." He loosed his dog-collar and laid it on the bar with an air of finality. "Am I getting through to you?"

This was a declaration. Needed proper time to sink in. She nodded.

He set the keys back on the bar and moved closer to the doorway she was lingering in. "So what about you?"

"Me?"

He braced an arm on the door jamb, leaning over her. He was inches away now. "What do you think about most in the world?"

_You, smelling of wool and frankincense and cream soap. How your mouth might taste. What you look like naked. Fire. Brimstone. Merlot. Say something say something say something-_

"Revenue." She heard herself. It sounded somehow dirty.

"Be serious."

"I think about being burnt at the stake. Especially if the townspeople hear I lured their curate away from the fold. Especially at Christmas."

He took her face in his hand. "Epiphany's not so far off."

_Oh, God. Quick! Try to sound flippant. _"Not a brutally ironic day to announce yours?" _Well, missed "flippant" by a light-year, but hit dangerously close to "smouldering."_

"You were just saying they don't deserve me."

She could barely manage a whisper. "And you think I do?"

The first kiss was soft, chaste, tentative.

It was the second that nearly bowled her over. Forceful. Hot. Deep. She embraced his neck. His long fingers played scales down her ribs, and he drove her against a wall for stability. Their mouths and hands moved more bravely now, tightening the connection.

She broke the kiss. "Should we stop?" she gasped.

"Probably." He stared into her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Then he dove into her neck.

She could no longer cover the breathlessness. "Peter, if we're playing chicken here, warning's fair: I play to win."

"Game on," he murmured against her pulse, moving lower. She gave into the instinct to arch her back and pull him closer at the hip. He lifted her with the aid of the wall, and she wrapped her legs hungrily around him. The effect on him was immediately palpable, and she wondered if her own longing was just as obvious.

From there it was harder to tell which act of playful revenge was whose; they were decidedly cooperative in the stagger through the barroom, and she pulled him down onto her as he lay her on the sofa. His mouth fought the neckline of her jumper for access to her collarbone. The neckline won, so he removed the cardigan and the blouse beneath it in one haphazard tug.

His breath against her skin was enough to erase the last thought of consequences from her mind. She went to work on his shirt buttons, no longer caring that this suit was not tailored for ease of removal by a woman's hands. Again he assisted in his own undoing, shrugging out of his sleeves, then leaning forward again to resume the trail of kisses that had begun under her jawline and was now testing the edge of her bra. His hands skimmed over the smooth fabric, and he seemed to delight at the discovery of the clasp in the front. The fingers that found it lingered for a moment, torturing her.

For all the wine he'd taken in, he made short enough work of it. Her own attack on his belt and fly was clumsier, but she was doing it blind as his lips and hands explored the skin he had just exposed. Again he helped by wriggling out of his trousers, sending the boxers to the floor still inside them. Now he peeled away her jeans, leaving the last article below maddeningly in place. Was he about to concede after coming this far? It would be sadistic...no. He again drank in the texture of the material with his fingertips as he continued kissing her, continued moving downward. Now her ribs. Now her stomach.

"Peter, will you regret this?" All equilibrium was gone from her voice. He had to know what he was doing to her.

He shook his head against her abdomen and pinned her wrists to the cushion. She was certain he would stop if she ordered it, but the message was clear: there would be no more gently asking _him _whether this was really what he wanted. She managed to contain the gasp until his teeth caught her waistband. He released her hands and finished unwrapping her with his own. He moved to kiss even lower, but she couldn't wait any longer. She pulled him back up, guiding him inside...

She was surprised by how tightly, how _perfectly _he fit with her; more surprised still at how vocal he was, and how he somehow seemed to know about the unlikely triggers in the bends of her elbows and knees. He knew the more likely spots, too...

Neither needed long after so much time under pressure. As he pushed her over the edge, the uncontrollable responses of her body seemed to pull him over it with her - he collected the sounds and sensations like rewards. They shuddered and cried out in a chaotic call and answer. He stayed with her through the aftershocks, caressing her lovingly.

In the next instant, he reluctantly tore away.

Her heart sank. _Here comes the remorse. Off he'll go, never to speak of it again. _She steeled herself for what was sure to follow.

He looked at her, grinning madly. "Still have those extra blankets? I'm freezing."


	3. Chapter 3: Confidences

The sofa had little to offer in sleeping area, but spooning proved helpful. As nightcaps often do, theirs wore off just a couple hours in, and the pair of them stirred about two o'clock in the morning.

Peter felt reality trickle over him in several disjunct installments.

_The Javelin is dead. It's dead because Timmy left it in gear on the precipice of a cliff. I haven't killed Timmy. _

_I am proud of this._

_Kevin O'Kelly is alive and safe._

_I'm naked under a blanket with Assumpta Fitzgerald. That's because we got drunk and made love on a couch in the pub. I told her everything. No going back._

_I actually want to leave my vocation. Homelessness and joblessness, I don't want._

_I want her._

_I need to get home without waking Timmy. If I wake Timmy, he will tell his uncle. Matter of fact, no one should see me leave here._

_If I start drinking water now I might escape a hangover. _

_God, we didn't use anything..._

A man with more recent experience in the previous night's activities might have recognised the logical order of getting dressed first, then hydrating. It had been a long, long time for Peter Clifford, though, and he could think only of his thirst now.

He couldn't think how to articulate this when Assumpta found him naked in the kitchen, his lanky form bent awkwardly to access water from the faucet.

"And me without my camera," she sighed, startling him.

He rubbed the spot where he'd bumped his head on the tap. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Eh. Heard the water going. No complaint here."

She'd pulled on her underwear and his shirt, he now noticed. "Nice getup yourself. Might need to borrow it back, though."

"I know." In the faint light, he saw shame on her face. Definitely not what the suit-makers had in mind.

"I just mean to get back to my house."

"What, frightened of a little half-naked walk-of-shame on Boxing Day?"

He detected a quiver in her voice.

"Come here."

She crossed the cold tiles and looked up at him.

"Peter, I...took advantage. I shouldn't have. You were hurting, you were drinking..."

"I'd made up my mind before you opened that bottle, you know." He opened the shirt and held her against him, feeling the tension drain out of her.

"You planned that?"

"Well, not _that _part. But by the time I'd got here yesterday, I'd realised. Where I'm wanted. Remember?"

"You can't tell me the loss of your car was the turning point," she mumbled into his chest.

"There was no single turning point, Assumpta. Every straw on the camel's back weighs the same as every other. I had a lot of them in a few years, is all."

"I'm a...straw?"

"Well, you're...lots of straws. Every time I looked at you, every time I touched you was another straw."

"Straw temptress."

"No."

"'Scarecrow, I think I'll miss you most of all!'"

"No." He took her by the shoulders to enforce this point. "You didn't seduce me. If anything..." She finally looked up. He made a pointed smirk.

She scoffed.

"Oh, come on," he whinged. "Wasn't I a bit irresistible?"

"Oh, a regular Don Juan." She shrugged off his shirt and flung it at him as she charged out of the room.

Peter followed her into the pub, where she turned on a lone wall sconce. They clumsily pulled on the previous day's clothes.

"Don't forget your...things," she said, indicating the dog-collar and car keys on the bar.

He collected them and pocketed them uneasily. "Hardly seem like mine anymore."

"You're not having second thoughts?"

"You keep asking me that. Are you?"

He should have known by now that the only surefire way to silence Assumpta Fitzgerald was to ask how she felt about him. He nodded his understanding and stepped into the cold dark of the main street.

* * *

Dr. Michael Ryan had hoped to secure Boxing Day off, but his home phone rang at 9:30 a.m. Assumpta's voice was hushed on the line, and he detected an urgency about her. He agreed to meet with her at the surgery in an hour, wondering what the trouble might be.

He had a hunch from the way she fidgeted in her chair. He'd seen dozens of young women in his career with the same stunned glaze over their eyes. He took care not to look like he was reading her mind.

"What can I help with, Assumpta?"

"Heh. How far would I have to drive for the morning-after pill?"

He knew it. "Let's back up a bit. When did it happen?"

"Late last night. I understand time's of the essence."

"Everything else okay? You aren't hurt, or...?"

"No, no, all in good fun."

"And you didn't use any method?"

She shook her head. "None about. Santa must have ignored my letter, so."

The doctor chuckled. _Ever the smart-arse. I wonder who...?_He had an inkling. He put it out of his head.

"Last menstrual period?"

"Haven't had much call to track them lately, but...it was on time. Finished a week ago, now I think of it."

"Pretty regular in recent years?"

"Far as I can recall."

"Good." He made a few notes on a pad. "Well, there's a chemist in Cilldargan with a good track record of filling prescriptions without a fuss. Could also prescribe you regular combination pills with specific instructions to get the same dose of hormones, but it's a bit more complex. Alternately, we could insert an IUD immediately, and it would stand a good chance of preventing fertilization if you were to ovulate in the next few days. There's also the benefit of continued protection if you think you might need it. If you expect the relationship to continue, for example."

"Heh."

"There are drawbacks, mind. Since you've never given birth you could have considerable cramping. Some patients faint. I'd need to know if you've any allergy to copper. Few other considerations. I'll get you some literature." He opened a drawer and rifled through the file folders inside.

Relief washed over her face. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for not asking who...I mean...We're such a small town, and all."

He nodded solemnly. _Oh, the confidences I've kept over the years,_ he thought. _You don't know the half of it._

Assumpta was a tough woman in many ways, but her tolerance for physical pain had never been impressive. The device insertion had knocked her out on the table, and when she tried to stand up after, she nearly keeled over again. The doctor reflected that her mother had been similar; Maureen had sworn off ever having another child after her daughter was born, and she had required more than the usual morphine in her final weeks.

"I don't think you should drive yourself home."

"Sure I don't know who else can do it."

"Is your companion from last night-?" He cut himself off in time to receive her dirty look. "How about Niamh?"

"Opening the pub while I'm out."

"Think Brendan could make it up on his bike?"

"Hmm."

The doctor stopped himself from volunteering Peter Clifford. Somehow it seemed that by speaking the name, he'd invoke the truth about his suspicion, and he decided he didn't yet want to know.

"Doc, you have Siobhan's number?"

"I do at that."

Dr. Mehigan it was, then.


	4. Chapter 4: Too Many Martinis, Lunch

Frank MacAnally shook his head in disgust as another neighbour began the awkward task of dismantling another tacky yard decoration. Did no one realise it was still Christmas for eleven more days? They'd all been so eager to decorate too early, to defy the very spirit of Advent, and now they couldn't shed the trimmings fast enough.

He brought in his morning paper and settled back down with his coffee. Fully forty seconds of peace elapsed before the intrusion of the telephone. He threw down the sports section in exasperation and plucked the cordless from the side table.

"Father MacAnally," he sighed.

"Father, it's Peter Clifford."

Frank disliked when the curate ignored his own title. It always seemed so noncommittal, as if any day the other shoe might drop.

"What is it, Father?" he prompted, hoping to remind the younger man.

"I need to speak with you at your soonest convenience."

Perhaps it was dropping already.

"Father Clifford, you are speaking with me now."

"I don't want to do this on the phone." He was making no effort to preserve the surprise, anyway.

"And I don't want to drive down to Ballykea on a day off, Father Clifford. How do you propose to get up here without a car?"

There was a long silence over the wire.

"Borrow the van from your good friend Assumpta Fitzgerald, perhaps?"

Still no response.

"I know what you're about to tell me, Peter."

"Do you?"

"Good heavens, you're an open book! Do you think, when my nephew phoned to say you got in at three a.m., I didn't know where you'd been all night? Unless you mean to tell me you were in the sacristy, nose-deep in the infernal writings of that dreadful Carlo Martini again." He rolled his eyes.

"I was only hoping I hadn't woken Timmy."

"And where is he now?"

"Downstairs. Napping."

"My point."

"He needn't have waited up!"

"It was my idea."

Another silence.

"Peter, am I wrong in thinking that this affair had been going on for some time already?"

"What?!"

"You've made a habit of being the last to leave the pub, sticking around after hours to 'help out,' you think no one suspected anything untoward?"

"Nothing_ had_ happened." In a small voice, he added, "Not until last night."

"It may as well have. Whether you gave into temptation last night or a year ago, the perception is the same."

"Oh, and it's appearances that count!"

"How dare you take that tone with me?"

"Then explain what you really mean."

"I mean it's hardly a new phenomenon for a priest to break his vow of celibacy."

"And it's hardly a new phenomenon for him to request dismissal, and it's almost always for the same reason. I've done the homework, Father."

"Don't jump the gun. Please! You made a mistake. These things can be atoned for. We are in reality no worse off this morning than the first time you were seen lingering at the pub past close."

"You're not suggesting that because the village gossips have dirty minds, I might as well whitewash - ?"

"Oh, that word. Every time the church takes a black eye in the media-"

"Stop right there. Right there. Every time we take a black eye it's because we_ covered up_ misconduct instead of addressing it. I'm reporting my first violation, I'm requesting laicisation, and if you attempt to spackle over it in the interest of public image, I'll tell anyone who's interested."

"You will not threaten me."

"It's not a threat. Just a warning."

"And I should expect you to keep your word now?"

"If you can't trust me on this, how could you trust me with a parish?"

Frank knew the fallen curate was beyond help. It was time to talk damage control. It would look far better to recognize the man's voluntary request now, than to dishonourably defrock him later - or worse still, to inspire another Carlo Martini twenty years down the line.

* * *

"How're you feeling, girl?"

"Embarrassed. Thanks again, Siobhan. I don't know how I'd have driven."

"Bad idea full of those painkillers he gave you anyway."

"Yeah."

"And these things happen. You were smart not to wait around wondering. Glad those days seem to be behind me," she chuckled.

"Y'never know."

Siobhan snorted. "Right."

"I seem to recall you give it up once in awhile," said the passenger, sounding just a little bit stoned.

"Oh, hush. I meant the result. Be a cold day in hell at my age, I figure."

"Yeah, well...best laid plans, hey?"

Siobhan grinned. "Drink to that. So. Friends from Uni made it after all?"

"Something like that," muttered Assumpta.

"Cute one, anyway?"

"Yeah." It came out a sputter. A signal not to pry. Siobhan left it there.

"Good on ya."

She helped the agonized publican from her vehicle to the pub entrance. A white-faced Assumpta motioned to Niamh Egan that the veterinarian was having lunch on the house. Siobhan arranged Assumpta on the couch, wondering to herself if that was the scene of the crime. There _was_ a blanket spread over it...

Niamh brought out a plate of the fish-and-chips special and a glass of the vet's midday usual. She eyed her best friend with concern.

"She'll be all right, Niamh. Just a twenty-four-hour bug."

"Hope it wasn't something she had last night, or we're all done for."

Assumpta groaned and pulled the blanket over her head.

The pub phone rang.

"Fitzgerald's?" Niamh beamed with recognition. "This is Niamh. Leo, is that you?" Assumpta peeked out from the blanket and began signalling wildly - _No, not here. _Siobhan turned Niamh's attention to it. Niamh frowned. "Mm, no, 'fraid she's out on errands. Can I have her phone you later?" she scribbled something on a pad. "Right. How was Christmas? Thought we'd see you with the old gang."

Siobhan found herself earwigging, against better judgment. She couldn't make out Leo's words, but his tone suggested that the old gang had indeed not made it into town after the regulars left last night.

_Bless her heart, the publican's had her way with a local boy!_ Siobhan bit back a chuckle.

"I'll convey your message, Leo. Booked and all now. Sure you'll be welcome." Niamh hung up and turned to her friends with a grin. "Guess who's coming to town after all?"

"Friends who stood me up on Christmas?" came the muffled cry from the blanket.

"Just one of 'em."

"Ex-boyfriend who stood me up on Christmas?"

"He sounded very sorry."

"Maybe he wasn't missed, Niamh. And please stop _singing_ everything."

"Oh, come now. You were giddy all week!"

"I'm not interested now."

"What, got someone else I don't know about?"

Siobhan lost a gulp of her drink out her nose.

"Right, I'm done playing Cupid. Leo's in tomorrow morning. Wants to make it up to you," sang Niamh.

Assumpta groaned again from under the blanket.


	5. Chapter 5: Like a Snowball

Garda Egan never expected much of interest to happen on Boxing Day, least of all in the area of the doc's office. He didn't mind the calm, of course, especially in light of yesterday's adventures - but after several hours, boredom was doing his head in. The only human contact all day had been a few of the grammar-school kids stopping to thank him for "letting Santa out of jail so he could leave us presents."

Surveying the street parking for the hundredth time that afternoon, he realised Assumpta's van had not moved in the entire length of his shift. It occurred to him now that this was a terribly long time for a medical appointment. He wondered idly if everything was all right.

A familiar Range Rover cruised by at the familiar breakneck clip of the local vet. Alongside her was Brendan Kearney. They pulled to the roadside and he exited the vehicle, squabbling with the driver.

"It's obviously not 'nothing' if she couldn't drive home."

"I said it was nothing_ serious_," Siobhan said, handing off the van keys to her friend. "Touch of food poisoning or some such."

"Well, I hope it wasn't the goods at the pub last night."

Siobhan snorted.

"What's so funny?"

"Just drive the van back to Fitzgerald's, will you?" The Range Rover sped away.

Ambrose waved to Brendan, eager for some conversation and now even more curious. The schoolteacher crossed the street to greet him.

"Everything all right?"

"Best of my knowledge. Guess we'll know if anyone else comes down with an upset stomach. Any excitement on your watch today?"

"Nah, seemed to have used up our year's allowance yesterday."

"Hope so. Any word on Kevin's recovery?"

"He's home resting."

"Good. Thought to drop by with some books later this afternoon."

"May I join you? I could lend him a few things from the record collection. Make him tapes, even. Good time to get him into Teenage Fanclub, don't you think?"

"Capital idea. We'll sign his plaster and fill him up on high art."

"Maybe some games as well. Order takeout. Suppose Padraig could use an extra hand entertaining Con while the man of the house is indisposed."

Brendan winced, making Ambrose feel immediately guilty.

"That was harsh, wasn't it?"

"Bit surprising from you, Ambrose, that's all. You're not wrong..." Brendan looked thoughtful. In his career he'd certainly seen enough children who picked up the slack for their well-meaning folks. "Rough couple days with Brian and your mum in the house, then?"

"Driving me mad, Brendan."

"Niamh?"

"Handles them far better than I do. Punishes them with her cooking, keeps them in line. Demanding for two, now."

"When are you shut of them?"

"Couple more days for him, at least. Mum's off home tomorrow."

"Do I sense an ulteriour motive for this Guys' Night In?"

Ambrose gave a sheepish nod. Brendan nodded his approval and adjusted the driver's seat in the Renault.

* * *

The curate's house had a tense air about it now. It was the last place Peter wanted to be, but he was under orders to await a call from Bishop Costello. Given his significant sleep-debt, a nap had a certain appeal as well. It would also save some awkwardness with Timmy as he packed for his trip home. It seemed redundant; given the recent wave of Timmymania, it was obvious to Peter who his successor would be - at least if the locals had any say in the matter. He knew full well how quickly a petition could make its way in this town...

The memory tore at him. When Assumpta had handed him the papers, he had taken the time to read each signature. The support was overwhelming, but it was overwhelmingly occasional churchgoers, only a few diehards. Well, there were only a few diehards. But the most devoted attendee to sign for Peter had been Niamh. Kathleen Hendley and her cohorts were notably absent. By and large, the names were the sorts to pop in for Mass once a month, lapsed types, or Christmas-and-Easter dabblers. Father Mac had to have noticed the paradox: "this priest is great, but we wouldn't want to hear _every_ homily."

Now he thought of Assumpta's own recent threat to bail town, thought of his own helpless attempt to talk her out of it at Niamh's party - asking what she wanted, telling her she could find it anywhere. He'd known even then, known well _before_ then what he really wanted; he just couldn't confess it to himself. He loved this town, but it would mean little to him without her. God only knew what might have happened if the old Uni crowd had shown last night to woo her away...no. They both belonged here.

He stripped down to boxers and burrowed into bed. Maybe he could still do good for the community from outside the suit. Pardon the expression. His skin burned with the delicious memory of the publican undressing him in the glow of the Christmas tree lights; the symbolism was too blatant to ignore. If word got into the wrong hands... Well. Thank God journalists seemed to be coming through Ballykea with less frequency these days.

Exhaustion took him over, and soon enough he found himself dreaming he was back in the pub...

* * *

Imelda's shrill singsong and Brian's bitter grumbling were growing more unbearable by the minute, and to make matters worse, Niamh's husband had abandoned her to look in on the convalescent at the O'Kelly place. The third time Brian called her into the living room to referee, she merely jangled her keys in response, and set out for Fitzgerald's. They were big kids; they could sort dinner for themselves.

Small though tonight's crowd was, Assumpta seemed grateful for the help.

"Feel any better?"

"Mm, yeah. Little tired still."

"Something just didn't agree with you?"

"Guess so."

"Or a little too much fun last night?"

The highball glass broke at Assumpta's feet. Niamh narrowed her eyes.

"Is there something I should know about?"

Her friend shook her head. The movement of her hair revealed a purple earlobe.

"Stomach flu cause monkey bites now, does it?"

"Niamh-"

"So this is why Leo wasn't missed!" Niamh squealed.

"Niamh!"

"Who is he?"

Assumpta looked over her shoulder. "Do you mind?!"

Niamh scanned the bar, munching thoughtfully on a peppermint stick. Brendan and Padraig were conspicuously absent - no, wait, Kevin's get-well party. Besides...eugh. She saw Liam and Donal, engrossed in a game of hangman...no. Eamonn had taken Siobhan hostage with husbandry-related conversation..."unlikely" didn't begin to cover that one. Assumpta would never get up to anything with Ambrose - if not on grounds of morality and loyalty, then certainly the mutual, sibling-like repulsion that came from their youth together.

She had spent the day at Doc Ryan's...no, he was also practically a relative. They all were, really. Eugh. It had to be someone from outside Ballykea. Fresh blood.

It hit her like a snowball to the back of the head.

"I know who it is," she whispered as her friend slipped past to make change.

Assumpta froze on the spot. "Kitchen. Now."

They surged through the swinging door. Two pair of dark eyes locked, blazing. The war of angry whispers began:

"Shocked!"

"Oh, don't pull a Kathleen on me."

"I can't believe you would corrupt someone so innocent!"

The horror on Assumpta's face quickly turned to incredulity. "That's rich. He's no innocent!" she hissed.

"Was before you got your hooks in!"

"Yeah?! You'd be surprised!"

"Slept with him, did you?!"

Spite, now - sheer spite. "Yes, Niamh. Best night of my sordid, heathen life! And he's definitely had some practise! Spent the morning getting an IUD to stop any consequences. All I see when I close my eyes is him, walking around naked in this very kitchen! Are you glad you asked now?!"

"Eugh! I can't believe it. I even saw how you were looking at him, since he first got into town! I only told myself you were above this!"

Siobhan's throaty alto boomed in from the pub. "Assumpta, customers!"

"Just a minute!" the younger women yelled back together.

Niamh's glare softened to a betrayed pout. "Does Father Mac know about this?"

Assumpta was still irate, but seemed to know she was beaten. "He told him this morning."

"How could you?"

"We got to talking, we drank some wine, one thing led-"

"Oh, let me guess, to another? He's just a fool kid!"

"He isn't actually twelve, Niamh! He's older than I am!"

"Oh, and I suppose that makes it all right to seduce - Huh?"

Bewilderment set in on Assumpta's face. "Sorry?"

"Timmy can't be older than you. You're -"

Assumpta's burst of laughter cut her off.

"Wait, Niamh, you thought..."

"Wait, but-"

"No."

_Looking since he came to town...told Father Mac, had to tell Father Mac..."met the new priest; he looks about twelve."_

At once, Niamh realised who Assumpta thought she had meant, and Assumpta realised she had given herself away. Needlessly.

Both their faces contorted in horror. Not a snowball. A wrecking ball.

"I've customers," Assumpta said weakly, retreating to the bar.

"Oh, my God, Father Peter," Niamh whispered as the door swung to a stop.

Niamh sat down at the table to collect herself. After a moment of stunned deep breathing, she decided the answer was probably behind the fridge door.

Him, walking around naked in this very kitchen!

Niamh recoiled from the handle. "Damn you, Assumpta!"


	6. Chapter 6: Murmurings in Ears

Padraig O'Kelly hoped to spend as little time as possible at Hendley's, especially with Con in tow. Under the circumstances, he hadn't wanted to leave the boy home alone with poor Kevin, but bringing him on the trip slowed things down. It also apparently meant picking up a few extra provisions. The discharged patient would probably appreciate a treat as well, he thought, adding some chocolate caramels to his order.

Naturally, being in a hurry, he'd find himself in line behind one of Kathleen's favourite scuttlebutt partners, Helen O'Halloran.

"Long day, Kathleen?"

"I have been awake since three a.m.," she lamented, opening the till.

"Heartburn again?"

"I wish I knew what brings it on. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I opened my window for a little fresh air. You'll never believe who I saw staggering disheveled out of the public house at that hour!"

"Oh, try me!"

"Our curate."

"Can't say I'm entirely surprised. What do you suppose he was up to?"

Padraig cleared his throat and nodded to the young boy at his side. Kathleen took the hint well enough.

"Will that be everything for you, Padraig?"

Con held his tongue only till they got out to the street. "Did she say Father Clifford was out all night?"

"Kathleen says a lot of things."

"Are priests allowed to stay out all night? Do they have curfews?"

"Sorta. Depends on what they're up to." Padraig glanced in the direction of St. Joseph's, trying to muster the benefit of the doubt.

* * *

Christmas lights again, and wine again, and car keys and crackers and a collar on the bar. The unprecedented bravery to tell her everything. Kissing her, finally, in the doorway. Her weight in his arms as he stumbled to the sofa. Clothes discarded on the hardwood floor. Skin against skin again. The heat from the fireplace felt like the sun on his back. The rest of him felt...her. Oh, God. How could he ever have imagined living without this? If he could last just a little bit longer...

Assumpta's ecstatic moans became full-on euphoric screams as she writhed underneath him, clutching at his back.

Then the screams became...bells?

Peter opened one eye to the ringing phone on the bedside table, and found he was in his own draughty bedroom and quite alone. A cold sweat replaced the pleasure that had radiated through him. A dull, spider-bite ache crept in where a moment ago was peak arousal. His heart was banging against his ribs like a terrified wild animal in a trap. His head buzzed like a tuning fork whacked against something very hard.

He answered on the fifth ring. At least, the fifth ring he knew about. "'Llo?"

"Bishop Costello for Father Clifford, please?"

Peter absently pulled the duvet over his bare chest, as though the caller could see him. "Erm, Your Grace! This is he."

"Did I wake you?" What time was it?! It was dark out.

"Oh, no, no, not at all." _That dream_. Peter felt possessed of an irrational fear that the bishop could somehow read his mind through the phone. That he might blurt out the words he was just now murmuring in an ear he liked much better. He had so carelessly bruised it with his own thirst last night...egged on by that unmistakable voice making all those noises he'd never heard it make before.

He'd do anything for those noises.

"Father Clifford? You still there?"

_Focus, boy!_

"Sorry." He wondered how many times the bishop had dealt with this - with priests turned total space-cadets by their first sexual encounters in years. _Open book, right?_

"Father MacAnally tells me you want to be laicised."

It dawned on Peter that His Grace might as well have known exactly what he'd dreamt about. He surely heard by now just what the curate had been up to last night. "Your Grace, I am sorry."

"Peter, try to relax. Let's talk a while."

* * *

Padraig's sitting room was a jumble of take-away boxes, playing cards, root beer cans, and male voices, including the ridiculously simplistic lyrics of that Scottish band Ambrose was tirelessly trying to convert Kevin to loving. Brendan chuckled as Con collected his poker spoils, grateful for his own sake that the pot was comprised entirely of chocolate caramels and a few sundry comic books. Naturally no real gambling would take place on the Gard's watch, but if the wagers had been money, little argument could have been made for the innocence of children.

For his part, Ambrose seemed relieved for a break from the harping of his mother and his father-in-law. He was a natural with the boys, especially the difficult, pain-in-the-arse younger one. Fatherhood would suit him well, Brendan decided. The schoolteacher sometimes wondered if he was missing out. He had become a surrogate guardian for so many of his pupils over the years - not least among them Ambrose and Assumpta - but they always outgrew their chaotic home lives. He felt occasional pangs of curiosity about how he might do with his own. Whether he could provide the stability he had long judged parents for failing to give...well, he hadn't a clue.

Of course, he figured it would be a cold day in Hell at his age...although he certainly still gave it up once in awhile. He wondered what Siobhan was up to this evening, holding down the end of the bar without her usual sidekicks...

He put her out of his mind.

At any rate, given how many of Ballykea's children were born to the irresponsible and unprepared, he was glad to see a bright young couple starting a family deliberately. He looked forward to meeting this Egan kid, especially if he had his father's respect for the rules and his mother's tenacity.

Padraig nudged him out of his reverie. "Suppose your one up at the church would want in on the bachelor evening?"

"Tried him earlier, actually. Line was busy."

Padraig nodded to the phone on the side table. Brendan dialled again.

"Still busy?"

Brendan nodded and disconnected.

"Popular fella, I suppose."

"Or getting an earful from on high."

"Wouldn't bet my last caramel against that, either. Understand Kathleen was up in the wee hours with another bout of heartburn, and when she looked out the window, she saw Father Peter tottering up the street from Fitzgerald's. Three in the mornin', if you'd believe that."

Brendan's stomach lurched. Since when did Padraig hear anything through the grapevine? It looked as if Ambrose had missed this. _Good._

"Stop by the shop, did you?"

Padraig nodded. "Usual altar guild windbags."

"Doesn't prove anything," Brendan muttered, not convincing himself. Padraig shrugged; he'd learnt by now not to speculate.

On the stereo, Brendan heard the grungy Scotsmen singing a mind-numbingly repetitive bit about turning one's back on everything and everyone.

"Ambrose, I think the album's looped," said Padraig. "We've heard this song already."

"No, actually, that was Part I. This is Part II." Ambrose flashed his boyish grin.

"And what's the name of this serial atrocity?" Brendan chuckled.

"'Catholic Education.' Also the name of the album."

Kevin's eyes sparkled at this. _Another casualty of the musical taste of Generation X._

Several uneasy thoughts were now fighting each other for prominence in Brendan's head. He tilted his root beer can at Padraig. "Got anything stronger in this joint? Think I'd better tipple before I try Peter again."

By the time he did, the phone was ringing, but Peter didn't answer.


	7. Chapter 7: Happy as a Fish on Friday

Siobhan had taken remarkably little drink for the hours she spent in the pub this Boxing Day - hadn't much felt like it lately, so she joined Eamonn in an early diet cola; after he tired of discussing ovine mental health and headed home, she stuck to water. Perhaps in light of the morning's events, or because of the quiet post-Christmas turnout, Assumpta seemed less inclined to harangue her for squatting. Seemed downright grateful for the company, in fact. Anyway, however little the vet drank, she'd certainly ordered enough food. In recent years, the pub seemed more amenable to the notion of a good Catholic Friday fish special. Perhaps the landlady was softening with time.

Siobhan looked up from her second slice of pie to see the place otherwise deserted. Just as she was about to announce her own departure, the door swung open to reveal Father Peter, dressed in civvies and looking freshly scrubbed, if a bit beleaguered. When the familiar skewed smile overtook him, she followed his gaze to the publican, who had suddenly gone beet red.

_Impossible._ Perhaps the priest's legendary inability to pokerface was transmissible by close contact? Oh, dear. _Get on with you, Siobhan. You've a dirty mind._

Her own inappropriate grin was threatening to emerge. "Best be on my way home," she managed. "Goodnight, you two." At this choice of words, Assumpta's nostrils flared. Classic tell.

After latching the door behind Siobhan, Assumpta turned to face Peter. Neither spoke for a moment. She was unprepared for what he finally said.

"I love you."

He was clearly enjoying this new game of being the cat that got her tongue.

"I spoke to the bishop. Meeting him and Father Mac tomorrow. I can be released from my duties immediately, except hearing the last confessions of the moribund. The vow of chastity officially sticks until the Pope clears it, but..." he looked sheepish. "His Grace said I should tell you how I feel because it won't always be illicit. Make sure you'll still have me when the thrill gives way."

She made a sour face. "Oh, you know me. Defrocking them and breaking their hearts. Eat you for breakfast, really."

"I'd let you, you know. I mean I hope not, but..."

How could he disarm her so easily? "Peter..."

"I. Love. You."

She was shaking. He couldn't know she'd never said it to anyone. It wasn't normal in the Fitzgerald household, wasn't even something her parents said on their deathbeds. Her old boyfriends had tried to get her to parrot it after them, and invariably given up after a few awkward "thank you" responses. The memory of this brought the nagging feeling that she'd forgotten something, but in the urgency of the moment it soon washed away.

She felt it. Finally she felt it.

"I love you, too. Believe it or not I'll even love you without the vocation."

He took her in his arms. She found she was crying, also relatively unfamiliar territory.

"Peter, you're giving up everything!"

He stroked her back. "Guess you'd better take good care of me then, hm?"

"I'm serious, this is so much..."

"Believe me, I've thought about that."

"How do I earn this?" she whispered.

"Well, for a start, promise you won't leave town."

"Done." Again that twinge. What was she forgetting? She'd been so hazy from the meds all afternoon..._Niamh said something..._

"More immediately," he breathed against her ear, "you could kiss me."

She lost the train of thought as she complied, tears subsiding. "Oh, if you're not careful, I could do all kinds of things," she said.

"I found that out," he replied with a naughty smirk.

"Do you want to come upstairs?"

"Is that a good idea?"

"No. Want to anyway?"

He inhaled sharply. "Last night, we didn't talk about..."

"Preventive measures?"

"Right," he said uneasily.

"It's sorted. Saw the doc today, got a device..."

"Oh."

"I know it isn't what you'd preach," she said, breaking away.

"Well, we English Catholics have a reputation for taking those pronouncements with a grain of salt, compared to you lot."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I like to think God is more understanding on these matters than we give him credit for. Not the first doctrinal conflict I've had, not the last."

She moved close to him again. "Amazing they put up with you for this long."

"Your turn for that now."

"Oh, I can handle you."

"Seem to recall that as well, yeah."

She broke one arm loose from the embrace to swat him lower down.

He made a now-familiar noise. "Now, about keeping you in line..."

"Like to see you try, Peter Clifford."

"Better take me upstairs."

* * *

By the time Ambrose got home, ready to crash from his sugar binge, Niamh was already in bed. She was wide awake, though. And sniffling.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she sobbed.

"Niamh-"

"I can't talk about it, all right?"

"You can't tell me?"

"I went to Fitzgerald's to lend a hand tonight, and I found out something I shouldn't know."

He knew it! _Rats? Roaches? E. coli?_"Is it a health matter? More food poisoning at the pub? Do we need to send in an inspector?"

Out came a horrific banshee wail. "Oh, will you let it drop?! No one's got any food poisoning, Ambrose!"

Ambrose huffed and reached into the drawer for his pyjamas. He was exhausted. He was worn out. He'd had too many root beers, too many caramels, and too hard a time explaining the merits of Teenage Fanclub to unappreciative middle-aged men, and now his wife was being moodier than ever and senselessly cryptic. He could hardly comfort her if she wouldn't let him in. He disliked the idea that a married couple should have secrets from one another.

"Niamh, I'm your husband. You can confide in me."

She set her mouth in a tight straight line. "If I tell you, it doesn't leave this room." She sounded like a treble version of her father. She meant business.

He paused, his eyes flicking left to right. "Is it criminal?"

"Ambrose!"

"If it's criminal, I have a duty-"

"See, this is exactly why I can't tell you."

He turned his back in frustration and began to disrobe.

Suddenly, she felt like talking. Civilly, even.

"It's not criminal. I guess. But it's a betrayal. And you must swear on your father's grave that you can keep this quiet, Ambrose, because it's going to ruin everything once it gets out, and we can't be the ones responsible."

He turned to face her with his shirt sleeves still caught on his wrists. "You have my word." He jerked free of the cloth manacles and knelt beside her on the bed, taking her hand in both his own. It wasn't quite swollen to the point that her wedding ring would have to come off, but it wouldn't be terribly long now. He thought of all she must be going through, of the last time she was afraid to tell him something, this pregnancy - and the time before, the end of the last one.

Whatever this was, he had to be there for her. He had to know.

"Assumpta and Peter had sex."

He did not want to know that. "Oh, eugh."

"On Christmas night."

"Eugh!"

"In the pub!"

"EUGH!"

"I know!"

"In the pub?!"

"She said he was naked in the kitchen."

"Oh, EUGH!"

"You're tellin' me!"

"That can't be sanitary."

"Ambrose..."

"Do you think the health inspector should be notified?"

"AMBROSE!"

"Shh! Parents!"

Her brow softened and her pout swelled. "How could they do it, Ambrose?"

He thought back to his own crisis, the cold feet that manifested as a higher calling days before they were to marry. Father Peter had insisted, you don't want to be a priest. Believe me, you don't. It had never occurred to him to wonder how deep that "believe me" really ran.

He took Niamh in his arms now. He felt her relax just a little against him, felt her breathing slow.

_There but for the grace of God go I._

* * *

Leo McGarvey had known it was a long shot when Niamh had offered to have Assumpta return his call. She might forget, or leave the note somewhere inconspicuous; the pub might be too busy. Or Assumpta might be hurt that the old clique from Uni had flaked on her, Leo included. He couldn't blame her for that. He was still trying to figure out how to explain their about-face on Christmas Eve. He would need something far better than the truth if he was to make it up to her, but he had the rest of the drive to get his story straight. He had every intention of winning her back.

He'd taken the holiday to Dublin with the blessing of the newsroom in London, hoping against hope that a good story would fall in his lap sometime along the way. The paper had already cut three staff writers in as many months - a political hotshot and two human-interest rookies - citing poor sales figures. (It had also hired a crew of five new commissioned salespeople to pester would-be subscribers and advertisers over the phone. The success of this strategy was yet to be determined.) Leo felt the pressure to prove his relevance on the job.

He also wanted to prove his relevance to his old girlfriend. The Dublin crew, particularly Fiona, had their sights on her for a wine bar; he'd be willing to relocate there if his own job dried up soon, and he'd want to hit the ground running. He wondered now if Fiona herself would be a problem, in light of what had taken place his first night back in Ireland. He hoped she shared his impression that it was a whim, fuelled by the effects of hot buttered rum and mistletoe, but the uneasy vibe between them on Christmas Eve morning had ultimately been what damned the group roadtrip to Ballykea. He didn't feel guilty for the rendezvous itself - he was presently committed to no one, and there had only been the hint that something might rekindle with Assumpta once he got out to the boondocks. But then when he backed out of the visit over the phone, she'd sounded so disappointed. Lonely, even. He was determined now to set things right.

The Saab had a six-CD changer, but even the sixth disc he'd chosen for this trip was now on its second loop. It was the Pogues, the same album he'd sent Assumpta by post in case the paper wouldn't give him enough time off. He wondered if she'd had a chance to spin it yet. And in spite of himself, he wondered exactly why she hadn't ever rung him back.

He settled in for the home stretch, grateful for cruise control and heated seats, eager to rescue her from a humdrum life in the middle of nowhere.


	8. Chapter 8: Morning, Broken

Niamh dumped cold cereal in front of Brian and Imelda and stormed out of the kitchen. Her houseguests glowered after her.

"And a good mornin' to you, too," Brian yelled after his daughter. He considered himself a patient, understanding, charitable man, and he was trying to keep in mind the hormones that must be playing hell with Niamh's behaviour right now. Still, his leg was killing him, Imelda was driving him over the brink in this tiny Garda house, and he'd been unable to get a refund on the sunk costs of his ill-fated ski trip. His legendary compassion had worn thin these last few days.

Thank God at least his co-in-law was headed home today. If Ambrose would only finish up in the bathtub and load his histrionic mother into the car already...What on earth was taking so long? Was he lathering each of those ridiculous golden curls individually?

Brian gnawed with frustration on the bran flakes that would most certainly get revenge on him later. They were already rebelling, apparently aiming for a new world record in sogginess. He buried a lower incisor into his inner lip and yowled in pain.

"If you chew more carefully, that'll happen less," Imelda piped up. Brian offered an icy stare in return, but her stream-of-consciousness had already burst the dam: "Niamh should be getting better sleep. I heard her and my Ambrose up arguing half the night through the wall."

"Did you, now?" Brian grumbled, sucking on the fresh wound in his mouth.

"Something about two friends of theirs carrying on an affair."

"Fascinating." Brian rolled his eyes.

"I think we lucked out with Ambrose and Niamh, Brian. Most of them that age have no grasp of morality at all. See no point in waiting for marriage, just jump into bed with anything that moves and act stunned at the consequences."

Brian noted with disgust that the mix of bran, milk, and his own blood tasted oddly like an American lager he tried at the pub once. He wedged the makeshift broom-crutch under his shoulder and, with much effort and little grace, carried his bowl towards the garburator.

"Brian?"

He didn't turn round. "Yes?"

"Which ones are Peter and Assumpta, again?"

"What?!" He spun round now.

Too fast, apparently. The broom and the dish took off in different directions, leaving Brian in an anguished heap on the floor, and covering Ambrose's clean shirt in soggy flakes at the exact moment he entered the kitchen.

* * *

Assumpta awoke to Fionn's impatient whimper just a bit before dawn. She threw on a dressing gown, dutifully let him outside for his customary morning business, and then brought him in again, stopping to freshen up on her way back to bed.

The illicit couple had become rather skilled at space-economizing their sleeping quarters these last couple nights, but by the time she returned, her lanky companion had unconsciously expanded to fill the entire bed. "No fair," she murmured into his ear. "C'mon, make room."

She watched him force his eyes open and scan the room to regain his bearings. "Don't tell me you forgot already." She doffed the robe.

He gave an appreciative look and pulled her back under the covers. "Usually when we do that twice in a night, I wake to find I made the whole thing up."

"I see. When did you start having dreams like that?"

"Somewhere after the second driving lesson."

"Really!"

"Okay, maybe the first."

This revelation provoked gooseflesh. "Making up for lost time now, then?"

"Long way to go for that. Don't worry, though: I've lots of ideas how."

"Probably should get some sleep at some point."

"No, you see, it's all part of my nefarious plan. This way I can tell the bosses I've been keeping vigil. Makes it look like serious business." He yawned. She diplomatically offered a starlight mint she'd brought from downstairs, and he accepted gratefully.

"Where and when will that be?"

"Cilldargan. Noon. That way Father Mac can be back in time to hear confessions, I guess."

"We have to get up yet?"

"Not quite."

"Good." She put her head against his heartbeat. "So the pair of them know about everything? I mean they must."

"Kinda. Left a few things to the imagination, but they're aware of the basics."

"Niamh knows as well."

Peter groaned.

"Peter, I didn't mean to tell her. She guessed. Well, I thought she guessed. Then I showed my hand. She's furious, by the way."

"S'pose it was inevitable. Anyone else onto us?"

"Hope not. How'll we break it?"

"I'unno. If only Angel Radio were still on the air."

"Mmm, brilliant. Buy an ad spot?"

"Or dedicate a song."

"Ha!"

She took him in for a moment - the scent and texture of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing. She kissed his chest and ran a hand down his arm, enjoying the response she got. The early light had begun to leak in through the curtains; if they wanted any more sleep, she would have to stop fondling him.

A loud knock from downstairs startled them both.

"I don't open for hours! Who the hell...?"

"Delivery, maybe?"

She pulled on her robe inside-out, scrambled to the window, and peered down. Below in the street, with a dozen roses in hand, stood exactly what she couldn't remember to deal with last night.

"Who is it?" Peter asked groggily.

Assumpta shushed him and opened the window. "Leo, what are you doing?!"

"Did Niamh not tell you I was coming?"

She thought of the mess downstairs, abandoned in the heat of the moment for the man now lying naked in the bed. "Check-in is four hours away. Place isn't ready!"

He beamed up at her. "I'm taking you to breakfast."

"I can't."

"What's stopping you?"

"It's a bad time, OK?"

"I don't mind waiting while you get ready."

She heard Peter snort in the background and turned behind her to glare at him, regretting the impulse immediately. When she turned back to Leo, it seemed to have dawned on him.

"You're not alone, are you?"

She thought about apologizing, but of all the people she might be sorry to for this, she couldn't think of a reason with Leo. "Does it matter?"

That awful, self-righteous bitterness had moved in over his dark features. "Anyone I'd remember?"

"That's hardly your lookout."

"Fine. I'll wait in the car and I'll check in at eleven."

She shut the window and pulled the shade. _Leo, on stakeout in front of my pub.__ Faaaan-tastic._

Peter was staring at her from the pillow. "Didn't know we were expecting him."

"Day late and a dollar short. Two days, in fact."

Peter frowned. "He thought you'd be waiting for him?"

She shot him a look and pulled some grubbies out of a nearby drawer. "If he did, he thought wrong." No reply. "Look, I'm gonna get started on last night's mess. You can lend a hand, you can take a shower, you can sulk naked the whole way to Cilldargan for all I care."

"Well, it'd certainly give your roving reporter something to write home about!"

"Extra razors in the cupboard," she drawled from inside the sweatshirt. When her head emerged, she fixed him with a cool glare. "Help yourself."

* * *

Brian watched impatiently from a folding chair as Liam and Donal swaggered out of the curate's house with the last of the boxes. Given how few worldly things the fallen curate had brought with him to Ballykea, it took a needlessly long time for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern over there to pack them up. With their early start, it was plain ludicrous that he would need to worry about the erstwhile tenant walking in on the proceedings. Sure enough though, Brian's binoculars caught the blue door of Fitzgerald's creaking open, and a gangly man emerged, making his way up the road. Brian noticed Peter turning his face away from a black sports coupe parked out front, and the coupe starting and creeping behind him.

Peter broke into the sort of awkward trot only tall men can achieve, and only in blue jeans. The black car continued to follow him. As he reached the lawn now decorated with his belongings, he looked more relieved for the presence of witnesses than dismayed at his unannounced eviction. His relief grew clearer as the car finally sped away.

Relief notwithstanding, Peter's smile looked fake. And stupid. "Morning, Brian."

"I suppose you'll want to know why-"

"Oh, I've a hunch."

"Have you?"

"Father Mac phoned?"

"Actually, I telephoned him."

The Englishman computed this for a moment. "Oh, right! Niamh."

This resigned attitude was maddening. "Would you care to make a wager on how many other people know?"

"Well, that all depends on whether the journalist who just drove past caught sight of my face."

"Oh, just what this town needs!"

Donal wandered out with a large metal crucifix in hand. He twirled it like a pinwheel. "Mr. Quigley, does this go or stay?"

Brian sneered at Peter. "You expect you'll be needing it anymore?"

Peter rolled his eyes and snatched the crucifix away. "May I at least run in and change clothes?"

Liam kicked a box. "They're in that one, Father."

Peter rolled his eyes and stooped for the box, pulling out a clean shirt and gently laying the crucifix inside. "No need for the formal address, thanks."


	9. Chapter 9: Seated at the Right Hand

With Imelda safely at the station, her White Diamonds eau de toilette still permeated the interior of the Garda car. Ambrose cracked the front windows in a vain effort to ventilate, hoping that the familiar strains of Catatonia would somehow scare away the lingering fragrance. Merging onto Ballykea's main street, he spotted a black Saab flooring it in the opposite direction. He made a squealing U-turn and put on his lights. By the time the driver pulled over, he realised just who it was.

He forewent the standard query about knowing how fast one was going, recalling how irritable Assumpta's old boyfriend could be. Instead, Ambrose tried a friendly smile: "Leo! Didn't know you'd be in town!"

The surliness was already there. "You going to cite me?"

"You were well past a safe speed, Leo. Rules are rules."

Why did this man seem to laugh bitterly at everything everyone ever said? "Ambrose, was it? Niamh's husband?"

Ambrose nodded.

"Do what you have to." He handed over his documents. "Some of us still believe in accepting the consequences of our actions."

_Good lord, he's so creepy._ Ambrose kept as steady a hand as he could filling out the citation.

* * *

The pub had barely opened when Leo returned from his brush with the law. Assumpta wordlessly handed him the key to the room he'd booked and passed him the ledger to sign.

"Your friend Ambrose says hello," he said, laying the ticket on the counter.

"Sorry. We don't validate."

"Not parking. Speeding."

"Absolutions are up the street." Best possible thing to say! She cringed in anticipation.

The bullet already had her name on it. "About that. Never figured you for a priest's mistress. Enjoy defrocking this one, did you?"

It wasn't unexpected, but it stung all the same. She didn't want to dignify it with a response, but holding her tongue had never been a strong suit.

"Wasn't to score a point against the Church, Leo. Hate to break it to you."

"And you're sure he's not just amusing himself for a spell?"

"Leo, was I supposed to be holding out for you?"

"What with how we talked on the phone, I thought there was something, but this isn't really about me. You deserve better."

"He's leaving the priesthood."

"Men with wives promise a similar thing, Assumpta."

This she let lie where it fell.

He went on. "I suppose it must be true, though. Drove past the church he's married to. They'd thrown all his things out into the yard."

She hadn't heard this. "Dammit."

"Jobless and homeless, then. Talk about carrying the clergy! This is what you really want? This is better than joining Fiona up in Dublin?"

"You must be right. Something in Dublin was worth blowing off Christmas here. Clearly it wasn't the flu." Was he squirming? She played a longshot: "How's Fi, anyway?"

He scowled and dropped his stare. _Maybe not a longshot after all._

"Oh, wow. Talk about deserving better, Leo; she's well out of your league. Always was."

"Well, we neither of us ever let the impossible get in the way of what we wanted, now did we?"

"Hope you're man enough not to waste her time."

He softened just slightly, pocketing his room key and making for the bar.

She followed, ducking behind the counter. "Bit early for your usual, wouldn't you say?"

"Something brunchy, then. Bloody Mary."

"Bloody indeed," she grumbled under her breath, retreating to the kitchen.

* * *

There had been moments in Peter Clifford's life when he expected to feel different and it simply hadn't happened. First was the death of his father, after months of slow decline, when Peter had just turned 16. Just weeks after that was the covert surrender of his virginity on a youth-group camping retreat. Graduation and ordination were two more. The milestones were all momentous in their own right, but it never felt as though he himself was changed.

And now there was this. No longer a real priest, but not yet truly free from the vow he'd already broken, and would gladly break again tonight - assuming the other party would even speak to him. It was a familiar, guilty numbness where devastation or exhilaration, or both, had been expected.

Father MacAnally had shown surprising compassion by transporting not only Peter but also his belongings, which now sat in the boot of the PP's car awaiting a destination. Official rites and formalities thus dispensed with, the older man handed him the keys as they approached the sedan. "You drive this leg. Figure out where you'll drop off your things."

There was only one place that made any sense to go. Under the circumstances it wasn't a lot of sense, mind...

As they emerged onto the highway, the older man began to muse. "Peter, you surely know that there is a unique compliment in this field of work. It is a high honour to be known among one's peers as a 'priest's priest.'"

Peter smiled sadly. "Don't remember your ever calling me that."

"Well, no. I certainly thought of a dozen other things to call you..." He paused and turned to the newly-minted layman at the wheel. "But you have been nothing if not a people's priest. I hope that whatever comes next, you won't lose what made you connect so well with this community. I hope you'll find a new channel for it."

A vote of confidence. Getting through to someone he never thought he had a chance with.

Peter did not want to be choked up right now, but there it was.

Father Mac seemed to sense this. He went on: "Peter, you seem to be weathering this transition very well, but please be cautious. Losing a job, getting evicted, embarking on a new...relationship," he nearly gagged on the word. "Any one of those on its own is a major shock to the system for an ordinary person. You'll find you have a lot to answer for, to those around you and to yourself. I've witnessed it enough in my time. It's messy. It will eventually hit you, and when it does, you can count on the Church to be there for you. That doesn't change."

His sniveling was ruining the moment, he knew. He'd be lucky if it didn't ruin the upholstery.

"Ah, yes. There's the first of it, right on schedule," quipped his confessor, passing a handkerchief with all the grace of a semaphore flag. Peter marvelled at this clumsy empathy, a side of Father Mac he'd never seen before.

"You're being terribly kind for all the trouble I've caused you," Peter sobbed.

Father Mac rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm just thrilled to be shut of you." It sounded both brutally honest and genuinely affectionate. "Now put on some speed. _Someone_ stuck me with an afternoon of confessions!"

* * *

Niamh was no less upset with Assumpta as the lunch hour approached, but two bowls of bran that morning had hardly been enough to hold her, and she knew from a glance at the menu plans the night before that the special would be potato-leek soup in a bread bowl, and sandwiches made to order. Walking out the door, she could think of almost nothing else. This craving business was getting old.

She was startled by the presence of a black sports car outside the pub, and reminded only then that Leo McGarvey had called yesterday to announce his plans, hours before Niamh knew what was really happening. This did not bode well. After all this time, the poor man remained always an afterthought. He would not be pleased to learn who had eclipsed him this time.

She looked up toward St. Joseph's, wondering if her hobbled father had made good on his threat to evict Peter. She had tried to fill in the other end of his phone chat with Father Mac earlier. It sounded as though they might make it official very quickly. There went Peter's promise to do the baby's christening!

Undaunted by the powderkeg she would find inside the pub, she set out. She wanted starch, and she wasn't about to let the consequences of anyone else's appetites get in her way.


	10. Chapter 10: Dublin Calling

The arrival of the regulars for lunch at Fitzgerald's came as a relief to Assumpta and an obvious frustration for Leo. The bald man on his left was pointedly ignoring him. The three smirking bastards at the end of the bar kept eyeing him from behind their pints, then looking shamefacedly away when he caught them. Niamh, still clearly cross with Assumpta, had claimed a table farther away to wolf down her BLT and chowder, but she stared unapologetic daggers at the back of Leo's head. In a way she couldn't quite understand, this made Assumpta feel safer.

Assumpta's respite was short-lived, however: it shattered the moment Father Mac staggered in, loaded down with boxes. A pace behind him was Peter, similarly burdened and quite red-eyed. They set the parcels in a corner. Peter made a distinctive motion: screwed-up face, downcast eyes, an index finger quivering in the air. _I promise I'll explain everything later._

Between Michael, Leo, and Peter, Assumpta realised that a lot of people in the room had seen her naked in the last five years. She almost felt naked now, the way everyone else had perked up. She shook the notion from her head and steeled herself as Father Mac approached.

"Get you a drink?" she bluffed.

"Wish I could, but my penitents await. Only wanted to advise you that he's your problem now," he deadpanned. "Miss Fitzgerald, I feel bound to remind you that he won't always be forbidden fruit."

She bristled at the implication, but under the circumstances she felt compelled to play nice. "That wasn't the lure in the first place." She tried to keep her voice low, but Leo was keenly engrossed.

"I will have to take your word." He smiled. "You know, this parish once had an obstinate young curate who would often quote the teachings of the prophet Dionne Warwick. A particular morsel comes to mind now: you'll never get to Heaven if you break his heart."

It was rare for the publican to be stunned by someone else's sarcasm. It was out-and-out mortifying to lose to this man.

As Father Mac left the pub, every other eye in the place turned to Peter.

He cleared his throat. "Any rooms to let?"

Assumpta opened her mouth to speak, but was drowned out by the ringing telephone. Peter felt himself brighten at the memory of a certain vivid dream he'd had just yesterday.

"Fitzgerald's? ...Fiona, how're you doing?"

Peter's reverie must have been all over his face, because Leo's stare grew even more menacing. Whatever business this man had with him, Peter didn't want to make a scene here in front of his friends. Indeed, he'd be asking plenty from them in the coming days as it was.

"Brendan, you mind watching my stuff?" The schoolteacher gave an understanding nod. Peter made for the door. "Well. Better get up to confession."

"What a coincidence," Leo snarled. "Me, too."

Niamh paired furious eyes with a tight smile. "Thank you both for reminding me." The would-be rivals turned now to glare at her. "What?" she demanded in mock-naïveté. "You think I've not sinned in the past week?"

And so it was that the three of them paraded up the hill, in what Assumpta might call a game of chicken. When they reached the door to the sanctuary, Niamh fixed Peter with her piercing gaze: "You first. Plenty to say, I'll bet!"

"Niamh..."

"Go on."

Properly cowed, Peter stepped inside, finding even emptier pews than usual. He entered the less-familiar side of the booth and crossed himself.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned..."

Outside, Niamh had Leo right where she wanted him.

* * *

Back at the pub, Assumpta found herself once again nervously toying with the phone cord, listening to her old friend confess everything that happened two nights before Christmas.

"I still don't know what we were thinking. You know how it can be. You have a few drinks, get a fire going, one thing leads-"

"To another. Yeah, I have some idea how that goes."

"I just feel so bad. Did we ruin your Christmas?"

"Oh, hardly."

"And there I was worried he'd got the wrong idea, and now Leo's down there to win_ you_ back. I feel like an eedjit."

"He won't be winning anything here, Fi." Assumpta knew Fiona would recognise her tone.

"Someone else, huh?"

Assumpta wondered now if there was any point being discreet. "Let's just say mine was all of two nights later than yours."

"Ha! You like him?"

"More than that. Have for a long time, actually."

"Who is he?"

"Think I'll have to tell this story in person, over drinks. You might not believe me."

"Well, the only man you've really talked about lately is your weird English priest friend."

Assumpta cleared her throat.

"Oh, my God!" After all these years, Fiona could still read her mind.

"Hey, there's more to it than that!"

"Can't wait to hear. Whatever it is, you know I won't judge you."

"I know."

"I mean that. Remember first year when I got pregnant and you helped me to London? We've been through hell together."

"That we have. Oh, love, I need to see you!"

"Well, maybe you and what's-his-name could come up for a visit. Take a break from the mob with their pitchforks and torches at your backs."

"Might be nice to get up there. Although..."

"Wine bar is off, isn't it?"

"Afraid so, at least for now. I'll tell you for sure when I've checked in with the pitchfork mob."

As she put away the handset, Assumpta turned to find that Niamh, Peter, and Leo had all gone.

Brendan seemed to read the alarm in her face. "Might be time to come clean," he said.

That dizzy feeling gripped her again. "Suppose I owe an explanation."

The regulars looked into their pints.

"Right, is there anything you don't know already?"

* * *

Kathleen was about to put up the "out to lunch" door hanger and make her way to confession, when Gard Egan wandered in with that stuck-in-the-headlights look. Sure enough, he was after satisfying his addiction, his embarrassing favourite diversion in times of worry: jigsaw puzzles. He lingered a maddeningly long time in front of the limited selection. He had already worked his way through all the ones with kittens, and both of the lighthouses.

He finally approached the counter with a 750-piece monstrosity featuring a sky full of hot air balloons, his eyes pointing low like wilting cornflowers. Whatever was troubling him, it must run deep. The shopkeeper took pity on him, inconvenienced as she was by his bad timing. His naïveté had been something of an annoyance, she thought, since he was a boy. Lately, though, she had come to appreciate any such purity-of-heart in his generation. She found it rare.

"Wait till you're my age and it's just as easy to work them upside down," she smiled wryly.

Ambrose seemed taken aback by this warmth, but he forced a smile.

She regarded the dazzling array of balloons pictured on the box. "Never could understand why anyone would go up in one. Always seemed downright foolhardy to me."

"People do a lot of crazy things for the sheer thrill of it, don't they?" replied the officer. Kathleen nodded.

She didn't need to quote the price. He had exact change ready in hand.

* * *

"Did you know about this when I phoned the pub?"

Niamh felt her face get hot. "No, Leo. And I'm not thrilled either. My parish lost the best priest we ever had, and my best friend never even warned me. But this! This dropping in and expecting her to fall at your feet! You blew her off first, Leo."

"And she waited several hours before she moved on."

Niamh thought back to the last time the reporter had paid a visit. _City people always think village life goes into suspended animation when they aren't looking right at it. _But even in those early days, she was catching her two friends in looks that went on too long, teasing that sounded too affectionate, and she had noticed the uneasy, overkill cheer Peter affected whenever Leo was around. She had dismissed it then, told herself that no matter how inappropriate it looked, there was nothing there. Or they'd behave themselves until the spark faded, which it surely would.

_So much for that._ Now she was looking at another piece of fallout, a humiliated man about to cry.

"Leo, I think we both know they've felt this way for a long time."

Something came over Leo's face just then, something like a cold front. His grimace brightened and his eyes glinted.

"You know what, Niamh? You're right."


	11. Chapter 11: Letters, Arts, and Sciences

Inside the booth, Frank MacAnally had had about all he could take of this.

"Peter, you're like a bad penny."

"I'm still a Catholic. I thought I was always welcome here!"

"I just spent the entire morning with you."

"I have sins to confess. Lying, coveting, forni-"

"Enough! I'm well aware of what you've been up to! Please stop reiterating!" The priest tried in vain to banish the unwelcome image from his mind.

"But I haven't asked for absolution."

"You don't entirely repent! You'll be going forth and sinning again! You'll be back in a week with more of the same!"

They both knew it. At last, the younger man shut up for a moment.

"I have actual confessions to hear today. Why are you really here, Peter?"

This met with a muted sigh. "Father, how will I tell my family?"

Frank was briefly tempted to give the pat response: _should have thought of that on Christmas night._ It was true, and well-deserved. Still, years of cold, after-the-fact reprimands had certainly done nothing to keep this particular rebel in line. Why would they benefit anyone now?

The elder spoke more gently. "How is your mother?"

"Still in remission, last we spoke, but not terribly strong."

Frank rested his temple on his hand. "Will it come as a great shock to her, do you think?"

"Either that or no surprise at all. Both possibilities are terrifying."

Frank considered this. This man had been, by his own measure at least, living a lie. The most immediate penance would be learning just how open the secret had become.

"I think out of respect for her, you should deliver the news as gently as possible. And you should do it in person."

Meanwhile in the pews, Niamh's urgent dash for the washroom had left Leo serendipitously alone - all the better to eavesdrop on the exchange inside the confessional, just as he'd attempted during the election years ago. This time he kept an ear out for the clacking pumps of that uptight spinster from the market, and he made more of an effort to look reverent.

Not so difficult, really. The construction was far from soundproof, and the men inside weren't bothering much with discretion. The conversation so far had revealed little new information, and had rehashed the unpalatable truth that Mr. Clifford had slept with the publican. But now something useful had finally emerged: the fallen priest might be returning home to England to devastate his ailing mother with the news of his defrocking. A story already full of dirt on the Church in rural Ireland would now touch on British soil. _Relevance._ Broken heart and Dublin be damned, Leo's career might just thrive, even as his industry and his personal life crumbled around him.

It sounded as if the chitchat in the wooden box might be wrapping up. Leo slipped out into the cloister walk before he could be caught._ Time to give London a ring._

Niamh just missed him on her way back, but her return timed perfectly with Peter's quiet exit from the confessional. "You'll wait for me," she told him, less a request than an instruction. He nodded and returned to the pew, lowering the kneeler as gently as possible.

She entered the booth now, crossing herself, adjusting to the notion of confessing to Father Mac - and wondering how she could miss a priest so badly after such a pathetic tumble from grace.

* * *

Padraig had gone off home to look in on the boys, and Michael had cleared out as well. Brendan and Siobhan lingered over their lunch plates, tearing at the remains of their bread bowls, as the landlady uneasily tidied the kitchen. Brendan hesitated to bring up the elephant that had already trashed the room; it hit too close to the ambiguous state of his own closest friendship.

As usual, his redheaded comrade had fewer qualms. "Wonder what'll happen now? I don't like that a jilted reporter was on the scene."

"We can hope he'll consider his own pride before he goes to the presses. Or that Ballykea isn't much interest to the London muckrakers."

Siobhan mulled this over. "Was it inevitable, do you suppose?"

"Depends on if you believe these things are ever really inevitable." What was he doing? Why was he steering the conversation down this road? He stuffed a gob of chowder-soaked bread in his mouth to stop himself burbling.

"Put that way, I guess I don't think so. There are those who say that what's meant to happen will happen. I think it's all a lot of random chance."

Debates between the vet and the teacher had always gone this way - she taking the pragmatic tack, he the idealistic one. It was part of what had drawn him to her in the early days: this sense of having a counterweight, a fellow intellectual who wouldn't surrender a sparring match too easily. Their impulsive night together before the beauty pageant had been fun enough as an experiment, they'd agreed, but better-as-friends was the ultimate consensus. At the time he'd been relieved. Lately, something uncertain and unwelcome was pulling at him.

He stashed the bite of bread in one cheek. "I mean could they have fought it?"

"Could have, sure. Would have, doubt it. Should have, I can't say from here in the cheap seats. Might have eventually had two very bitter, frustrated people on our hands, and when one gives the homily and one runs your local, that's a dangerous thing."

"Fair point." He sipped his Guinness. "So do you think it's always better for people to come clean?"

"When?"

"Well, you know. Smoke there's fire, that sort of thing? Like...burning a turkey?"

A long, slow exhale was the warning.

Now she swiveled on her barstool to face him straight on. "Brendan Kearney, for a literary type, you know you've all the subtlety of an anvil strapped into a broken parachute?"

"Sorry? I only-"

"I thought we spoke about this. Thought we came clean already." She wasn't quite irate, but she might get there if he continued to press the matter. He let her go on. "Do you not know my mind, or do you need me to tell you yours?"

Brendan shrugged and laid his soup spoon across his plate. An Englishman, a_ priest_ several years his junior, could do this? The town's best wordsmith couldn't?

* * *

Leo returned to the pub to hear dishes washing in the kitchen, the landlady herself presumably in there as well. Grateful he wouldn't have to look her in the eye, he crept quietly upstairs to his room. Niamh had booked him right next to Assumpta's own quarters, a courtesy that now seemed brutal. He hoped the pub walls had better insulation than the church confessional; he didn't care to get_ quite_ such an inside scoop as he tried to sleep tonight, and he could certainly use a little privacy himself now.

He pulled the prepaid card from his wallet and tried to recall which button might get him an outside line. He knew the odds were long on a Saturday afternoon, but a voice mail would at least leave the editor a little cherry to pick when she checked her mobile. He waited through her deadly dull outgoing message and the earsplitting beep that followed.

"Barbara! Leo McGarvey checking in from Ballykissangel. Something interesting has turned up, believe it or not. I'll need to arrange transportation to Manchester and get some background on a family there. Call you tomorrow with more."


	12. Chapter 12: Any Room?

"You have to know we didn't mean to hurt anyone, Niamh."

_"You_ had to know that you would."

Peter realised these pangs of late-breaking guilt were exactly what Father Mac had warned him he'd feel._ "You'll have a lot to answer for," indeed._ The look in Niamh's eyes was penance enough. As it softened, he found the guilt growing heavier.

"You are in love then?"

"I am."

"When did you realise?"

"In my gut, probably when I met her." Niamh made a face. He ignored it. "I tried to smother it for a long time. Lack of air didn't kill it, so two nights ago I held it up to the light."

"You know, when you moved here, you wouldn't even tell me if you'd ever had a girlfriend."

"Did it matter?"

"I only..." she took a deep breath. "Had it never occurred to you when you took those vows that this might happen?"

"I'd had relationships. I liked women."

"Then why even bother trying?"

"Because it was rare for me to really click with someone. And I'd certainly never felt like this before."

Another disgusted face.

"Niamh, when Assumpta picked me up on my way into town that day, it felt like God was putting me through some sort of cheeky, custom-designed trial by fire. When I found out how she felt about the church, I thought the feelings would fade away. Or at least that she'd never share them. Don't you think I'd have faltered well before now if I wasn't thinking of the consequences?"

"You could have stuck it out long enough to go about it honestly."

"You're right."

"But?"

"No 'but.' You're just right."

"Why not, then?"

He shrugged. "It had been an intense day. Maybe a sense that it was now or never. I knew I couldn't expect her to wait around forever. I didn't feel like living without her anymore."

She was not quite mollified, but the stink-eyes finally seemed to have run out. In fact, she was sniffling.

"You were going to christen the baby!"

"I'd have felt like a hypocrite. Even if I _was_ pure of deed. I've already felt that way for years. You deserve better. This whole town does!"

"That'll be a first!" she scowled. "Mark my words, Peter Clifford. Your interim replacement had better be utterly perfect and totally asexual."

"Niamh, c'mere." He opened his arms. She gave him a hug with a side of bone-crushing resentment, and then stormed into the pub for another toilet break. After the soreness in his ribs subsided, he went in as well, finding his boxed possessions gone from the entryway.

"Moved them upstairs for you."

Assumpta stood again in the kitchen door where life as they knew it had begun to unravel, not 48 hours earlier. She pulled a brass key from her apron pocket. "Gave you the room farthest from Leo's."

He'd have settled for sharing hers again.

_It's no big deal. She needs her space_. "He's still in?"

"Booked through tomorrow. Sure he'll be lying low until then anyway. Pretty sore about everything."

Peter shuddered at the idea of sharing a roof with the man who'd been tailing him that morning. He decided for her sake not to bring it up. Not much choice, anyway. "What do I owe you?"

"You can't afford my weekend rate. Help me with the dinner preparations and we'll call it square. However long you need, I can put you to work."

A good enough port in a storm. "I'll probably be travelling to Manchester in a bit. Drop the bombshell in person and all that."

"How you think they'll take it?"

He shrugged. "I've no idea."

She nodded. "All the same, gives Father Mac a chance to introduce your replacement."

"Don't suppose you'd like to join me on holiday?"

"Are you trying to kill your poor mother?!"

"You're right, you're right." He reflected for a moment. "I do think she'd like you."

"Ha."

"I do. I'll bring you home when she's had a chance to get used to the idea."

"One thing at a time."

"I know."

"By the by, my old roommate Fiona can't wait to meet you. Says come on up whenever we need refuge."

"Maybe I could meet you there on the way back from Manchester."

"That'd be grand."

Niamh emerged from the toilets and shot an uncertain look at the couple in the kitchen door. She missed the man lurking at the top of the stairs with a notepad.

* * *

As it happened, there was little need for extra help over the dinner shift. The crowd was small enough to make Peter wonder if the public was catching wind of things. Closing and cleanup passed quickly and quietly, which he attributed to the possibility that Leo might come down at any time to give them more grief. He hoped that Assumpta would follow him to his room afterward, but she gave no indication of this as they dimmed the downstairs lights.

In fact, he was already in bed reading when she let herself in.

He jumped. "I thought I'd locked that."

"You had. I keep a duplicate of every key." With her hushed voice, she reminded him to lower his own.

"Oh, and you assume you'll be welcome." He knew they should probably talk seriously, but flirty glibness was easier, and at least he knew where it would lead.

"Putting you up indefinitely, in exchange for mere dish duty? I'd better be." She met his eyes. "And I couldn't sleep knowing Leo was on the other side of the wall. He's been on and off the phone with someone all night."

He set Cardinal Martini's latest tome on the side table. "About what?"

"Decided it wouldn't help me to know."

"Right."

"Sorry about this morning, Peter."

He shook his head. "All me. Got a little jealous is all. Not the first time."

"His turn for that now."

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

"How'd the meeting go?"

"Everything's sorted but the Pope's seal. Bishop said he remembered you."

"Oh?"

"From the play rehearsal. And your name on the petition."

She cringed.

"Said he figured you were in love with me even back then."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, is that right?"

"Mmmhmm."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm not asking you to believe. I am merely asking..." He eyed her jeans, t-shirt, and flannel. "Sleeping in those, are you?"

"Got a better idea?"

He weighed this in his mind for a moment, then peeled off his Middlesbrough t-shirt and flung it at her.

"Only if it wouldn't just be to spite the bloke down the hall."

She held it up like a trophy. "Must admit, that wouldn't exactly spoil the fun."

He raised one eyebrow.

She jettisoned her flannel, then her t-shirt. "Reckon the cat's out of the bag anyway, don't you?"

"Sorry? Wasn't listening."

Now went the jeans. "I said it's already old news, there's nothing we could do about it. Might as well sit back and enjoy the ride in the handbasket."

"Hm? Sorry, miles away just now."

Her bra landed on his head. She paused at the mirror to admire herself in the worn-out old shirt.

"Short-term loan, mind."

She turned down the covers and slid in beside him. "That right?"

He clicked off the reading light. "Yes. Reserve the right to repossess it anytime." He ran his hand to her hip, just beneath the hem of the shirt. She inhaled sharply and brought her leg up over him. His hand moved up inside the shirt, trying to commit her curves to memory.

"How're we doing on all that lost time?"

"We've not even begun to offset my twenties, Assumpta." In their present configuration, it was stating the obvious. "You're sure we won't be heard?"

"Shhh..."

Their mouths connected with an intensity that equalled the frustrations of the day, and the unspoken fear both of them kept pushing aside._ Playing chicken again._ He knew it would catch up with them, knew there would be much more hell to pay, and by the way her arms and legs gripped and clutched him, he knew she was thinking of it too. As they stripped each other and came together, the strain of keeping quiet spilled over into a fierce recklessness.

When it was over, both of them had tears in their eyes. He embraced her protectively, whispering into her hair a host of assurances he didn't quite believe himself.


	13. Chapter 13: Assembling Pieces

Imelda's departure had lowered the noise pollution levels, and freed up the guest bedroom. In exchange for a bit of peace and privacy, though, Brian now had to navigate the stairs. Fortunately, the evening's experiment in moving without the broom-crutch was thus far a success.

Brian limped painstakingly down to the Garda kitchen, surprised to find the table occupied at this hour. There sat the spindly frame of his son-in-law, bent over a garish 750-piece jigsaw puzzle that was at least 300 pieces away from completion. Brian supposed that there were worse habits than being a sissy; enough of his compatriots headed for the bottle when something was troubling them, but Ambrose was content with his record collection and his interlocking pieces.

Brian felt moved by an odd nostalgia. "Niamh's mother liked a good puzzle, you know."

Ambrose smiled. "Sorta like walking a labyrinth. There's comfort in knowing the solution's built right in, if you only stick it out."

All these years since Brendan's lessons, and the annoying tendency to wax poetic still ran strong.

Brian changed the subject. "Mass in the morning. I hear they're planning quite an announcement, not to be missed."

Ambrose filled in the centre of a hideous striped balloon. "Is that what's keeping you awake, as well?"

"This sort of scandal could be the death of our tourist trade. Among others!"

Ambrose linked the top and left edges. "Our last curate didn't leave on good terms either."

"At least he left quietly. And at least he actually left."

No response. Ambrose attached the basket to a chequered balloon in the corner.

"I suppose with callings so rare nowadays, we can hardly expect the cream of the crop." Brian picked up a chunk of horizon and looked on the box lid for where it might belong.

Ambrose looked up. "If he hadn't talked me out of it, I might've been next."

Brian frowned.

Ambrose linked the left edge to the bottom. "For that matter," he said, suddenly chipper, "Niamh could have been the next Assumpta. We'd be in all the papers!"

Brian grumbled, and pushed away from the table. Ambrose called after him: "Just think! 'Ballykissangel: Where Moral Decency Goes to Die!'"

Brian limped up the stairs, clenching his teeth at the sound of unmanly giggles.

* * *

A number of things Sunday morning went smoother than predicted. Leo's early checkout from the public house was quiet, and almost contrite - as if he felt guilty for his presumptive petulance the last couple days. Assumpta was able to arrange her travels, and Peter's, with minimal trouble over the phone. The agents even worked it so he could meet her for the last night in Dublin after his first two in Manchester, without losing much daylight between. For all her disapproval before, Niamh had been surprisingly willing to take over operations for half of the coming week, with the caveat that the place could either host a private party or close early on New Year's Eve - at her option. If they played it right, they'd be back to undertake the cleanup on 1 January.

The morning drizzle limited the size of the congregation, and among the stalwarts in attendance, most looked sympathetic (or at least smugly satisfied) at Peter's farewell address. The mistrust that might have resulted over the defrocking of their confessor seemed outweighed by the magnitude of his own public admission. Not that he explicitly spoke of the affair, of course. He only said he'd fallen in love, and that he hoped to marry. By the skeptical looks the parishioners exchanged with one another, it was clear they had some idea of who it was. More than a few caught up with him after Mass to wish him luck, the implication being that he'd need it. He thought again of that old petition, of all the signatories who were likely still in bed this morning. Some had surely heard tell of things already; was this another reason to stay home? Were the people most affected really the ones who'd miss him the least?

Turnout for Sunday brunch at Fitzgerald's was only slightly more impressive than it had been at St. Joseph's, but the regulars seemed in good spirits - mostly. Assumpta noticed Brendan and Siobhan were keeping their distance. She cornered her old mentor during a lull, partly to drown out her own case of nerves: "Everything all right?" she asked, tilting her head in the vet's direction. Brendan only shrugged and looked away, signalling that the subject wasn't on the table. "Fair enough," Assumpta countered. "Ears are always open if you need 'em."

Brendan lasted until he saw Siobhan make for the exit, pausing as she left to exchange a silent frown with him. When the publican brought his second pint of Guinness, he folded. "Christmas night," he muttered.

"Believe I've heard of it."

"But enough about you. You'll recall I'd originally planned to celebrate alone with her. 'Shock horror'?"

"And then everyone wound up here."

He punctuated the moment with a slow sip. "Realised I'd been looking forward to Plan A a little too much."

"Did you go home together?"

He shook his head. "Took it for given we would. Got disappointed, then got angry with myself for being disappointed. Yesterday, I tried to bring it up, and..." He gave a whistle with a rapidly-descending pitch.

"All the finesse of a Javelin going over a cliff?"

An exaggerated wince interrupted them. Peter had evidently worn his quiet shoes.

"Will you never stop sneaking up like that?" Assumpta cried. The answer was a self-satisfied grin.

"You probably needn't pretend to hate him anymore," Brendan suggested. "Some of us never fully bought it in the first place, mind."

"Oh, you're givin' the advice now?" she retorted, already halfway to the kitchen door. Peter started after her.

"Get a room!" Padraig cracked.

"He has," Assumpta called back. "This is how he earns it."

The hoots and hollers only got louder when she handed him a pair of rubber gloves.

Peter blushed. "It's only cleaning up, you right perverts!"

"So that's what the kids are callin' it now!" the mechanic howled.

"Yeah, yeah."

At least it cheered Brendan up a little.

* * *

Thanks to a litany of scheduling conflicts brought on by the mess in Ballykea, Timmy Rheen had to wait an extra few days in Cilldargan before Uncle Frank could drive him home to Tralee. Fortunately he wasn't due back at the seminary until they observed the Epiphany on the closest Sunday, 4 January. The two relatives stopped for a quick bite at a roadside cafe along the route, parking next to an impressive black sports car in an otherwise desolate lot.

Timmy found it mildly odd that the hostess seated them next to the only other occupied booth in the place: a dark-haired man in a pale jacket, sitting alone. He made no mention of it, though, and his uncle didn't appear to notice.

"I apologize again for the delay in getting you back home. You can imagine the mess we've had in the wake of all that's happened."

"Found an interim yet?"

"The trouble we've had, you'd think they were dropping like flies. By the time we find one,_ you_ may well be ready!"

Timmy felt a twinge of guilt at this. Soon enough it would be May, and ordination would surely follow soon after. Before long, if a pretty woman asked him whether he was a priest, he couldn't get off on a technicality.

"Seems a bit ironic," he finally replied. "Christmas Eve, I kept bringing up loneliness, and he kept deflecting."

"It's something we grow accustomed to."

"Or not."

"Few have the trouble he had."

"You mean...?"

"There was, well, not to say_ precedent_..."

"Oh?"

"Hence the reassignment that put him in my care. Some girl from back home fancied him. Jenny Clark."

"He got in trouble?"

"The official word was that he requested the move so he _wouldn't_ get into trouble. Perfectly honourable course of action as far as that went. When he first arrived in Ballykea, he seemed committed to a fresh start."

"Then he met Assumpta."

"Not only that. Jenny followed him."

At the next table over, Leo McGarvey could hardly believe his luck.


	14. Chapter 14: Concourses

_Never done author's notes before, but this chapter's a shortie, so no time like the present. I'll begin with the obligatory **thank you!** to everyone who's reading, following, or reviewing. Someday I'll have a chapter that moves forward more than a couple of hours of storyline. _

_Today is not that day.  
_

_A number of unbelievably gifted writers on here have done beautiful jobs of creating the family back in Manchester, and I really couldn't begin to compete with those. I'm taking the Cliffords in a slightly different direction, since the canon (as I remember it, anyway) gave us very little to go on. If my Cliffords ring weird or untrue, please check out some of the other Cliffords - notably, drop by the works of **ferndoyle **and **Mrs. Tompkinson**, and put a little pressure on them to pick up where they left off. (I am going to stop typing "Cliffords" now. It's starting to look like I made it up.)  
_

_Come back with me now to a time when airport security was looser but departures and arrivals were** far more romantic**, and we had a different Pope. It's almost 1998!_

* * *

They'd cleared security with time to spare, and now Assumpta was dozing in Peter's arms on a bench near the gate. He'd talked her into stealing a kip while he awaited his plane, promising to keep watch over her now and get his own sleep during the flight. He enjoyed an hour or so of simply staring out the glass walls as other Ryanair red-eyes arrived and departed. The post-holiday rush left the place busier than it might otherwise have been in the wee hours. He wondered if any other passengers here were headed home to tell their mothers that they'd fallen in love and abandoned their livelihood.

He glanced around, cherishing this strange new freedom to show affection in a public environment. They'd likely never see these people again; none of them would know that the tall Englishman and the sleeping Irishwoman were _not_ supposed to be a couple. Peter wondered if any of these other couples were similarly hiding in plain sight - from estranged spouses, from disapproving parents, from Pope John Paul II. In his career, he'd seen enough people turn green at the weddings of their good friends; he'd come to suspect that nearly every happy union left someone else unhappy in its wake.

Not far away sat a family with a couple of young children, similarly knackered and draped in fleece throws. The mother cast a friendly smile his way, and he wondered again what she'd have done if she knew the whole story.

By and by, the woman he cradled opened her eyes.

"Sure you don't want to see if they can put you on the plane with me?"

"Maybe I could fit in the overhead bin." This conjured a memory of watching her slip inside a narrow church window to silence a wayward bell. Even then, as he steadied the bottom of the ladder, he had admired the shape of her far more than he had a right to. Now, here, among people from all over the world, he could touch her without any repercussions.

Boarding began, and she grudgingly moved so he could queue up. He slung his rucksack on one shoulder.

"See you in a couple days," she said.

He kissed her in a way that is only appropriate in airports - encumbered by luggage, wobbly, handsy. He savoured the long-lost, wonderful, Catholic-schoolboy feeling of getting away with something forbidden, right under someone's nose.

* * *

When Assumpta pulled up in front of the picturesque flat, it was still well ahead of sunrise. A freckled, bespectacled blonde was already waiting outside.

"Fiona!"

"Good lord, Assumpta! It's about time!"

"I warned you he was taking a red-eye!"

She ushered her inside. "Cuppa?"

"Love one."

They carried their hot teas to a pair of overstuffed armchairs. Fiona must have caught her old friend gawking. "Like the place?"

Assumpta nodded sheepishly.

"Me, too. Can't take credit for it. Remember my parents?"

"They're still at it?!" Assumpta remembered now how the McInerneys had competed for their daughter's favour with lavish presents.

"Twelve years since they finalised the divorce, you bet they are."

"Nice problem to have."

"Oh, no complaint here. But...it's one reason I wanted to get the wine bar going. Prove the little spoilt brat could earn her own way."

"Makes sense."

"And maybe I've romanticised it. You always made it sound so grand, running your own place."

"Was never really my idea, though. Kind of owe that one to my own parents."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Assumpta shrugged good-naturedly, yawning.

"Let's get some rest. I've been up all night and you look about to fall over. I have you in the guest room; when Father Sweetcheeks gets here, he can join you, or we can pull out the sofa-bed."

"That's 'Mr. Sweetcheeks,' to you." Assumpta felt her brain slowing down. "You have a guest room?"

"Yup. Your own bath, too. Tub ought to fit the pair of you," she sang.

_She and Niamh should start a choir... _"Fi..."

"Innocence never became you, Fitzgerald. Don't bother."

* * *

Mary Margaret Clifford had noticed the cab outside as she rinsed her teacup, but she thought nothing of it. The neighbours' kids must be home for the new year.

She was dumbfounded when a knock at her door proved to be her own middle child. She knew his assignments left little room or money for visits home, and with no warning like this, well...

He gave a tired, sad smile. "Happy Christmas?"

After a long hug, she held him at arm's length and looked him over. This boy, who had grown under her heart in a womb long since lost to disease, was now past thirty and more than six feet long, still so surreal. His eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from travelling. He had added a few pounds, which he probably needed. He looked delighted to see her - and terrified. She found she felt the same.

"How are you?" he breathed.

She could only hug him again.

Once inside, he dug into his rucksack and presented her with a small wrapped gift. She delicately removed the paper from the CD. "Moses Hogan Chorale?"

"You'll love it. Trust me."

"Don't imagine this is traditional Irish music?"

"Worse than that. American."

"Oh, my."

She arranged him at the kitchen table with a spot of Earl Grey and a ginger biscuit. "You didn't come up here to give me culture, Peter. What on Earth?"

His face fell. "Mum, have a sit down."

_Oh, no. Has he heard...? Impossible. Something else.** He** has something._

"Peter, is it bad news?"

His voice became thin. "We'll see how you take it."

Just then, a rather rotund tortie-and-white cat burst into the kitchen, flinging herself into Peter's lap. He brightened immediately. "Hiya, Zoe!"

"Hasn't forgotten her favourite, I see."

"Neither have I. Looking spry for...oh, Mum, she must be..."

"Nearly fourteen. We've enjoyed becoming zesty old women together." It occurred to Mary Margaret that this meant the bedroom door must be open.

Sure enough, just then a raspy Glaswegian baritone echoed down the hallway. "Maggie? Who are you talking to?"

Peter's jaw dropped at the sound of a nickname his mother hadn't gone by in years.

She swallowed. "Suppose I've some news for you as well, love."

In walked a white-haired, ruddy-complected, broad-shouldered man, clearly just dressed and freshly-showered. "Well, I've already met Andrew, and this definitely isn't Kate," he said. "You must be Peter. Burt Hamilton. Pleased to meet you." He reached over the table to shake hands. "No need to get up; I know it's near impossible when Zoe's made up her mind."

Burt popped a clerical collar into his dress shirt. "Peter, your mother tells me you're a man of the cloth as well."

Mary Margaret took a moment to read her son's expression. He looked as if multiple responses were trying to come out of his mouth at once, all blocking one another from the exit.


	15. Chapter 15: Cats, Dogs, and Explanations

"Sorry, darling, Burt thinks it's funny to torture people. He's not one of ours."

It took only a moment, really. "Anglican?" Peter guessed, a mix of relief and amusement washing over his face.

"Late-bloomin' convert kind, but well done." Burt smiled, availing himself of an orange. "I hate to cut and run, but I'll be late for morning prayer at St. Mark's. Peter, I hope we'll get a chance to talk later." Peter nodded. Burt pecked Mary Margaret on the temple and slipped out the side door.

Peter made an inquisitive face as he hoisted his Earl Grey.

"We met at a widowed-persons social group some months ago, and...I really have been meaning to tell you, Peter. I phoned a few times this past week, but it seemed you were always out," Mary Margaret said. Her son had relaxed somewhat, and a ridiculous grin was pushing up the apples of his cheeks.

"I'm sure this comes as a shock," she added.

"Oh, I think I can still go you one better."

"Fair's fair," she said. "Lay on it me."

* * *

With the preferred dog-nanny still laid up, it had fallen to Brendan to look in on Fionn. He certainly had some time over the school break, and Assumpta had arranged with Niamh to give him a pint on the house for each feed-and-walk appointment. Monday afternoon, he came by to collect his charge for a brief constitutional before his customary pile of kibble.

In the yellow light of the pub kitchen, he paused.

_That_ didn't look normal.

"Niamh," he said, leaning through the doorway. "Seen Fionn's right eye today?"

Niamh looked horrified. "It's not _missing_, is it?"

"No, it looks...weird. Come see."

She followed him to where the red setter was curled on the floor.

"Eugh. I think you probably ought to phone Siobhan."

_Oh, why me?_

* * *

After an early supper, the former roommates retreated again to the comfortably-appointed sitting room. Fiona cleared her throat and looked over her glasses at Assumpta.

"Oh, no. I am totally sober, and we agreed over the phone..."

"Please! Hardly the first time you've rescued a boy from the clutches of chastity!"

"Well, he wasn't always..." _Let's start over._ "I didn't deflower that many back in school!"

"I counted at least two, and the second one's still carrying a torch now."

"Fi, don't talk like that."

"Well, he is!"

"Fi..."

"No skin off my nose. We had fun and all, but..."

"You wouldn't want to make it a regular thing?"

"God, no."

"Fair enough."

"And here I thought you'd be devastated!"

"Sorry."

"So, this English boy. It's serious?"

Assumpta nodded.

"He'll leave the priesthood?"

"It's well underway."

"Incredible. How in the world...?"

"Drink first. You promised."

"Amaretto on the rocks it is," Fiona declared, making a beeline for the wet bar.

"Ever the sweet tooth. Make mine a godmother, will ya?"

Fiona dutifully added a shot of vodka for her friend.

* * *

Dr. Mehigan entered the pub kitchen to find her patient resting in the lap of the last person she wanted to see.

She purposely ignored Brendan. "How are ya, Fionn? Eye troubling you?"

Siobhan spent a few moments noting the setter's general condition, then finally deigned to address the other human in the room. "Entropion. Common in his breed. He had trouble with it as a puppy, but we thought he'd outgrown it."

"What is it?"

"Eyelid turns inward, and the lashes irritate the cornea. He's uncomfortable now. He'll need surgery soon as we can, but in the long run he'll be fine. When's the last he ate?"

"Breakfast."

"Good. Keep him hungry and I can operate tonight. Have a number to reach Assumpta?"

"Think Niamh does."

"It's good you were here to notice. You were right to ring me."

In the comforting hum of the appliances, it almost sounded like she forgave him. Brendan looked at Fionn and decided that if a setter could be brave with his eyelashes inside-out, a man could speak his mind.

"Siobhan, it wasn't fair of me to corner you today."

"True."

"You're right I don't know my own mind right now."

This seemed to bring her up short.

He continued: "Realised I was looking forward to a night alone with you. Far too much. Not your fault. I'll get over it. I only need some time."

She looked stunned. She nodded and slipped into the bar.

* * *

Peter gently unwound the garlands, then the lights, from the tree in the sitting room, coiling them carefully as he went.

Mary Margaret was confined to her parlour chaise by the corpulent presence of Zoe. "I do appreciate your doing this for me. I know it's a bit early-"

"No trouble, Mum. If anything I'm the one imposing." He found a roll of liquorish toffees hidden in a miniature stocking ornament. He handed them to her.

"Nonsense. It's a joy to have you."

"Even under the circumstances?"

Mary Margaret sighed. "I hope you weren't expecting me to take you out back and shoot you?"

"Well, no, but-"

"You know most people change jobs a half-dozen times in their lives? You thought I'd disown you for one?"

He carefully inspected the hand-tatted angel topper before boxing it away. "It's not that simple. You put me through seminary."

"You couldn't have predicted you'd fall in love. Claudia Wheeler, up the lane? None of her kids stayed in the fields they studied for."

"I took vows."

"You've broken them?"

Shamefaced, he took sudden intense interest in the ceramic cross Kate had made as a teenager.

"Then you weren't meant to stay in that vocation."

"Because I'm weak."

She shook her head. "Because you're not quite as odd as we all thought you were."

"You're not disappointed?"

"Sometimes I'm disappointed that it has to come to this. That could be the effect of dating a vicar. I don't know." She unwrapped a liquorish toffee. "Good priests leave the job because they've done things all normal laypeople do. Bad priests do things no decent person would do, and too often they stay. I'm in no place to tell Rome what to do about it, but yes, it troubles me. My son changes his mind because he's met someone who takes his breath away? And she'll actually put up with him? It just doesn't come close."

"You're not just saying that?"

"Peter, look at my bookshelf. Look at all that Dorothy Day business. Was there ever a doubt what kind of Catholic I am?!"

The edges of his mouth twitched upward.

"This is the one you've written me about, yes? Hotheaded, taught you to drive, runs the pub?"

He had a glittering red glass heart in his hand. It wasn't lost on him. "Assumpta."

"My kind of woman."

"Thought you might say that."

Mary Margaret lifted the somnolent Zoe from her lap and made for the kitchen. "Peter, your father must be looking in right now and having a laugh on the both of us."

"I hope so."

* * *

Fiona's phone rang after two rounds of godmothers, and roughly one-third of the way into the most absurd love saga she had ever heard.

"It's for you," she said. "The veterinarian?"

Assumpta's sense of alarm cut right through her mild buzz. "Hi, Siobhan?"

"Assumpta, I need your permission to operate on Fionn."

Her heart raced. "God. What's happened?"

"His eyelid. Entropion seems to have made a surprise comeback."

Assumpta's panic instantly gave way to an overwhelming sense of incredulous irritation.

"Siobhan! Could you not maybe have led with that little tidbit?!"

"At ease!"

"You had me terrified! Thinking he was going to need a bloody..."

"Hemilaminectomy?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. You don't want to know."

"Fine. Yes, of course, you have my permission. I can give a credit card now, or..."

"We'll sort it when you get home. I'll let you know how he's doing in the morning."

"Thanks."

Fiona watched her friend hang up. "How's my namesake?"

* * *

Peter contorted into a sad combination of the foetal pose and the recovery position, in a vain attempt to fit into the bottom of the bunk he had shared with Andy for all those years. It was already too short for him by the time he was fourteen; how had he managed it then? Too bad Kate's old room is a study now._ Oh, how she fumed when she came home to see that!_

Maybe it wasn't a matter of dimensions. He had, after all, slept in different unusual quarters every night since Christmas, and not really slept anywhere last night at all. But the sleep he had been getting... Well. Had he really grown so accustomed to her company in so short a time, and this after a decade of mandatory solitude?

He supposed it wasn't such a bad cause for insomnia. With all they had worried over in the last week, things really had been remarkably easy. Father Mac, supportive; parishioners, understanding; Mum, happy in love herself and outspoken in her happiness for him.

Two nights alone seemed a small price to pay. Maybe it only got simpler from here.

As if sensing his longing for companionship, Zoe settled herself onto the duvet, kneading rhythmically and purring at her usual motorcycle volume. No, strong-willed women were nothing new round this place. Assumpta would fit right in.


	16. Chapter 16: The Hot and the Creepy

Siobhan had done a beautiful job of the sutures and the bandage, and she got the Elizabethan collar onto her patient before the sedative wore off. She gently tapered off the IV fluids, removed the needle, and methodically bandaged the shaved foreleg. In this community, it was more common to take an outcall than to use her small operating theatre at the clinic, but at times like this, she appreciated the serenity of a controlled environment. The sage green walls, the stainless steel table, the sterile instrument tray...all were orderly, and uniquely her own.

She ducked into the small waiting area where Brendan was lost in a children's book by James Herriot.

She couldn't help being tickled by it. "You can borrow it, if you like. Class might enjoy hearing it."

"Might do."

"I've a warm kennel to keep him under observation for the night, Brendan. If you'll help me get him to my place, I'll drive you home."

Brendan nodded and rose from the plastic bench. He tucked the hardcover of _Moses the Kitten_under one arm and turned to the door.

Siobhan wasn't sure what came over her right then.

"You're also welcome to stay the night, if you're willing to assist with a little ward care."

"Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?"

She grimaced. "You've been hanging round Padraig, haven't you?"

* * *

Leo reached Manchester near midday 30 December, comfortably outfitted in a less-sexy rental car to help keep his cover. Even with the help of the Internet, it was no easy task pinning down a specific Mary or Margaret Clifford in a city this size, and even harder to find a specific Jennifer Clark. He had his work cut out for him, and no idea how long the fallen priest would be in the area.

He stopped at some little hole-in-the-wall for a pasty and tea, and looked over the three M Clifford listings he'd found in the book. It would be a long afternoon.

At the next table, he overheard a man and woman bickering.

"I just don't see what's so important they had to tell us in person today," the woman grumbled.

"Mind if I catch a lift with you, by the by? I walked here."

"Expected you'd need one. Andy, what do you suppose...?"

"Maybe Mum's had a recurrence?" Not a couple, then. Siblings.

"She told me the first diagnosis on the phone. And she would have had to tell Peter to come up here, but it sounds like he's in on this."

Leo set his teaspoon on the saucer as quietly as possible and pulled the notepad from his pocket.

"You think it has to do with him?" said the brother.

"Maybe they're sending him back."

"No, remember, they tried that a year or two ago. Bunch of his mates out there raised hell to get him to stay."

"Right. Weird village that must be."

"Was weird. He kept mentioning the leader was some woman who didn't even believe in the church-"

"Andy, don't."

"What?"

"Makes it sound all...wrong."

"Men can have woman friends. Priests can have skeptic friends."

"This is our brother we're talking about."

"Jenny was ages ago. Nothing happened."

"I was actually - wait. Do we really know nothing ever happened?"

"I believe him."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Never felt a need."

"Why not?"

"Because she was a little too creepy and a little too hot."

"You can't be both creepy and hot, Andy."

"This girl was. I saw her. Believe me. Kind who'd seduce you, then murder you in your sleep, but you'd be sort of fine with it."

"This is why you're still single."

"You ought to know. You were saying?"

"Um. Right. I was actually thinking of when he came back from camp the year Dad died. Mum didn't even have to ask what he'd gotten up to. It was all over his face!"

"Oh, and you and I were perfect angels, Kate?"

"Oh, we were led round by our pants much as any other. But we didn't grow up to be clergy."

Leo was hardly devout, but this day he certainly felt someone was looking after him.

"Could be Mum."

"What?"

"Man-friend she's been going about with. I bumped into them at the market a couple weeks ago. Maybe they're an item."

"I doubt it, somehow."

"Well, if it isn't bad news for her health, I'd call it a win," Andy said.

"Fair point, I suppose. Shall we, then? Find out what all the fuss is?"

"You gonna finish that scone?"

"Andy, you're a pig."

"Are you?"

Kate sighed. "Have at."

"Thanks."

He slipped out to the grey station wagon to watch them leave. They were unmistakably Cliffords: disobedient brown hair, large green eyes, and bones a bit too long to fit normal-size clothes. Babyfaced giants. He thought of Assumpta now. _No accounting for taste._ The siblings got into a small red hatchback and drove to a residential neighbourhood nearby, oblivious to the second half of their caravan.

* * *

Siobhan had refused to open the liquor cabinet all night, on the grounds that both of them were on call to care for Fionn. Brendan had assumed this enforced sobriety would keep the pair of them from doing anything rash.

Based on this, he had to conclude that the events between the eleven-o'clock painkiller dosing and the early-morning temperature reading were, by definition, not rash.

They hadn't talked much at first, really, except to discuss Fionn's condition. He had found himself enjoying the sound of her voice even as she listed all the unpleasant genetic predispositions of popular breeds. Red setters, it happened, were generally healthier than most, but the digestive troubles Fionn suffered during Kevin O'Kelly's ill-advised cabbage experiment had worried Siobhan for a time that the dog might have something called GDV. Something apparently very serious.

Brendan had found himself reminded of the time she purchased him at the charity auction, and put him to work collecting a sample from Rollicking Roger. He'd prepared himself for a nightmare, but the experience had fascinated him. There was a strange sort of visceral poetry in veterinary medicine, he thought, in applying the clinical to the wild. This late English Herriot fellow understood it well enough. Brendan really could listen to Siobhan go on about it all night.

But it certainly wasn't pillow talk. It wasn't the bottle. They'd simply gone in with the understanding that they'd spend the night together. Planned. Unspontaneous. He couldn't explain it away this time. The predictability of it was almost like a dance.

When Siobhan got up to shower, he saw the dog peering at him through one good eye and looking like nothing so much as a furry table lamp.

"Don't you smirk at me," he muttered.

* * *

Staking out the widow's cottage was no easy task; the narrow lane offered few options for parking out of sight, so Leo had wound up leaving the wagon round a corner and hoofing it back. Near as he could tell, no one saw him duck behind a shrub under the kitchen window, which was mercifully ajar to air out the fumes of burnt toast. Did these people always overcook everything? After all his time in London, he still wasn't used to it.

The annoying voice of Peter Clifford carried out on the smoke. "Mum, you want to go first, or shall I?"

"BOTH of you?!" Kate cried. "Andy, don't tell me you have bad news, too?"

"No. But I think I know Mum's news."

"Andy!" Peter yelled.

"Is it a certain Scotsman? Because you told me you were just friends-"

"Andy!" Mary Margaret and Peter yelled together.

"I cannot believe you lot," Kate said.

"It's not necessarily bad news," Mary Margaret said. "Just...big news."

_Not bad news? Why isn't she heartbroken?_

Peter cleared his throat. "I'll start. I'm back for a visit because I'm...I'm leaving the priesthood."

The silence lasted only a moment.

"Called it," said his sister.

"Mary Katherine!" her mother warned.

"Fine. Sis, I owe you ten quid."

"Andrew Thomas!"

"What's her name, Peter?" Kate sighed.

"Oh, c'mon, not even a little shock?"

"Mum, were you surprised?" Andy laughed.

"Well, I was...a little."

"Mum!" Peter whined. It was pointless. Andy's laughter had spread to the two women at the table.

_What on earth is wrong with these people? They're complete maniacs! No wonder he's so twisted._

Illuminating as it was, it was hardly the spectacular scene Leo had hoped for.

He would have lingered to hear their mother share HER news, but just then an ugly sound came from the window. Something like a newborn impersonating a cow.

He looked up to see an obese, geriatric cat glowering down at him from the ledge.

"What's wrong, Zoe?" said Kate. Leo heard a chair pushing away from the table.

He escaped as quickly as he could.


	17. Chapter 17: Potentials

_Thanks again to everyone who's still following this. (Can you believe I began drafting it with a oneshot in mind? **Oops.**) Leo's improbable good luck might soon run out, and his conscience might get the best of him indeed - stay tuned - but for now, we're keeping other company. Don't know how long this prolific streak will hold; eventually I'll get hired somewhere, or my Bioethics homework will come calling...meantime, though:_

* * *

Peter knocked on the jamb of the door to his mother's room. She met his eyes in the wall mirror, pinned her ash-streaked hair into place, and waved him in. He took a seat on the bed and watched her push a pair of pearl studs into her earlobes.

When she was recovering from the hysterectomy during his last year in town, he'd stayed the night at her side in hospital. Complications had arisen, and whilst they waited for the surgeon, the nurses had told him to keep her awake, distracted, and talking. He'd made her tell the story of when she got her ears pierced; like many of her generation, it had been a barbaric teenage initiation rite at a sleep-over party with her friends. He'd asked for every detail she could remember: the names of her friends, the kind of needle, the shape of the ice-cube, the earrings she chose. Her lucidity had been remarkable.

Finally her doctor had arrived and whisked her into the operating room to control the hemorrhaging. Peter had sat on a broad window ledge, praying rosary after rosary, subconsciously matching the rhythm of his intercessions with the beeps and whirs of equipment down the hall.

"What's on your mind?" she asked him now.

He took a moment to treasure the sight of her, skin pink instead of grey, hair grown back in. "How are you?"

She recognised the weight of the words. It was familiar now. "As of my appointment two months ago, no evidence of recurrence. Next checkup is in a month. Adjuvant treatments continue as normal."

"I read your letters, Mum. How do you _feel?_"

"Exhausted, some days. Fine others. Overall, though, quite content."

"Good."

"I'll skip telling you not to worry. I know it's rather a specialty."

"But you'll tell me-"

"What Doc Elliott says when I see her next month, yes, of course. And every visit after."

Downstairs, the front door clicked open, and they heard the wobbly thudding of Kate's ridiculous stacked heels.

Mary Margaret exchanged asymmetric smirks with Peter. "Your big sister still has no idea she's already tall."

* * *

"So this is it?"

Fiona nodded and punched a combination into the key box, releasing a small brass key to open the heavy wood door. The peeling red paint and the swelling from humidity made it a bit tricky.

The setup inside was what Fitzgerald's might look like as neglected ruins, making Assumpta imagine what it must have been in its heyday. The bar was blackened and warped, the floor lumpy in places, and the windows boarded over.

"Not much to look at now, but you know how I like a challenge."

"I like it. Lots of character. Maybe a few friendly ghosts."

"Needs the mother of all renovation jobs. But it's a good location; bit of a trendy area, nice neighbourhoods nearby. Young establishment types in need of a meet-market."

_About as un-Fitzgerald's as you get_, thought Assumpta. "You should do it."

"Would do if anyone were up for it. I don't want to hire off the street for this. I need people I can trust."

"And a week ago I'd have jumped at the chance," Assumpta said.

"I know. I'm happy for you, really." The way Fiona looked at the bare ceiling beams, Assumpta knew she was envisioning an intoxicating mood-lighting scheme. She went on: "Just keep me in mind if they ever run you two out of town on the rails, mm?"

Assumpta nodded. There was certainly no guarantee they wouldn't.

* * *

Brian was fresh off a good night's sleep in, wonder of wonders, his own bed. His limp was down to a trivial hitch in his walking gait.

He noticed Fitzgerald's was on its own best behaviour. With his own well-bred daughter running the pub, service was friendlier and more efficient than usual. Brendan and Siobhan seemed to have mended fences, as they arrived with Fionn in tow, a plastic cone round his neck. Ambrose was high off the successful arrest of another bootlegger passing through (and the completion of that ridiculous jigsaw). Father Mac had come by to toast the selection of an interim priest to cover St. Joseph's. Doc Ryan and Padraig were discussing Kevin's recovery. Eamonn had come for the diet soft drinks and stayed to bend the ear of Kathleen Hendley.

"Sure is nice and peaceful without the ex-curate and the landlady about, eh, Mr. Quigley?" Liam offered, ever eager to shine a light on the obvious.

"It has been a nice couple of days," Brian answered.

"Do you think they've run away together?" Donal mused.

"If only," deadpanned Brian, signalling to Niamh his desire for a refill.

Having pulled her father a fresh pint, Niamh beckoned her husband close across the bar. She had spotted a good mood, and now was the time to take advantage of it. She leaned in close, her eyes wicked but her mouth sweet.

"Ambrose, what would the Gardai say to a little private New Year's party here tonight?"

She braced herself for his smile to flatten and his pale eyes to narrow, but it didn't happen. He glanced briefly over both shoulders. "Suspect if you play your cards right, we could reach an understanding of sorts."

"And Superintendent Foley wouldn't have to be bothered with the details, correct?" She had him by the arm, and was tickling his pulse point.

Ambrose swallowed. "Sure on New Year's he would have bigger fish to fry."

Their voices dropped out of the audible range as they continued the discussion in each other's ears.

Brian tried to ignore his daughter and son-in-law's public _quid-pro-quo_, wondering if this lusty, "screw the rules, let's have fun," devil-may-care attitude had anything to do with other recent developments on their social circuit. He told himself he was imagining it. Just because two prominent locals had made arses of themselves, it didn't necessarily follow that everyone else would misbehave under the logic of "at least we're not..." These things didn't transmit by miasma. At least his own generation was behaving itself, he hoped.

He glanced at Brendan and Siobhan, who were interlacing fingers beneath the bar. _For pity's sake! _Even the legendary killjoy Kathleen was knocking back highballs, though perhaps this was a necessary evil to make Eamonn's yarns more enjoyable. Hopefully, it wasn't to make the farmer himself look more attractive. No terrible pairing seemed impossible anymore.

Seeming to sense Brian's discomfort, Father Mac ambled over, whiskey in hand - effectively scattering the two Quigley Investments employees who had been on their boss's back all night.

"How goes your recovery?" the priest asked.

"Moving along nicely everywhere but the wallet."

Frank nodded, relaxing his posture slightly in a sign that he was ready to listen.

"Curate's house should be ready for the interim by the time he arrives," Brian added.

"I don't suppose there's a way to add saltpetre to the water supply?"

"Believe me, the thought had crossed my mind." He sipped his stout. "I find myself wondering if they passed around the apple for everyone else in town as soon as they'd each had a bite."

"This too shall pass," Father Mac replied. "It's a natural thing when a bad wind blows through town. They get rowdy for a few weeks, and then they get it out of their systems. You and I need only worry if it gets into the media, and it's been ages since the big shots came through here. Same kind of thing happened after the last curate crisis. No long-term damage, you'll recall."

Brian thought briefly of mentioning the man in the black car who had stalked Peter up the hill, but thought better of it. Frank's stress levels were high enough these days, and his blood pressure likely right alongside them. There was no sense troubling him with conjecture.

All Brian said was, "I hope you're right."

* * *

Bemoaning the fuss of a midday departure, Father Burt and the Cliffords decided the most practical spot for a farewell brunch was at the airport itself. They settled on a dimly-lit place with an unremarkable selection of egg dishes and breakfast breads, but a nice view of the runway.

"So what're you going to do now?" Andy said between mouthfuls of bacon. "Got a job, place to live, anything?"

"I'm earning my keep at the pub for now. Need to figure out what's next, but in the meantime there are always dirty dishes."

"Sounds like it's been something of a whirlwind," Burt observed, sounding more charmed than judgmental.

"Sudden and not," Peter reflected.

"Heart a few miles in front of your head that way?"

Peter nodded.

"Can't believe it," Kate said. "Seems only yesterday he was getting ordained. Now I find he'll probably beat me to the altar."

"Certainly know the way," Peter said, equally wry. "You've one advantage. You don't need a go-ahead from His Holiness."

"Be a long time coming if she did," Andy muttered.

"You're one to talk," Mary Margaret retorted.

_And Assumpta thought I'd never survive the smart-arses in Ballykea, _Peter thought.

"Oh, Lord help us," Kate laughed. "There's that fool grin again."

As his siblings poked around the duty-free shop, and his mother excused herself to the washroom, Peter found himself scanning the departure monitors alongside Father Burt.

"I'm sure it's been a hectic few days for you, but it's been wonderful for me to see all of you together this way."

"Trial by fire," Peter smiled.

"Ach, Kate and Andy have mouths on 'em, true. Little attitude is a good thing, I've always thought."

"Builds character. Prepared me well enough for life in Ireland, anyway."

"I'll bet."

"Father Burt, stop me if this is out of line..."

"I shall."

"Have you and Mum talked about the long-term?"

"Well out of line. Best take you out back and shoot you." It sounded even better in his deep burr.

"Fair enough. Good job she's got you talking like her already."

"In honesty, we have." Burt looked Peter square in the eye. "We're very happy, but we're both in uncertain health, and we both have grown children. We both thought it best not to complicate matters for now."

"Never say never," Peter said.

"I never do," Burt grinned. "Anyway, it'd be a miracle even to agree on which church to marry in."

"But you'd say there's hope for a mixed-beliefs couple from different worlds?"

"We'd both better hope so, hadn't we?"


	18. Chapter 18: Dark and Bitter

Assumpta lingered by the arrival gate, eager, giddy. If two nights alone had this effect on her, she was in big trouble. As soon as he came off the jetway, she reached for him, marvelling at how natural touching him had become in under a week, and how the sea of unfamiliar people around them just..._allowed it_. If only they had thought of this airport loophole sooner.

"How was the family?" she managed when they finally came up for air.

"Merciless teasing, but empathy ruled. Mum has a sweetheart of her own, we find."

"Really!"

"Not quite as unlikely as an Irish publican, but he makes a good showing."

He relayed the major developments and gave a crash course on Andy and Kate as they left the terminal. They made their way to the carpark and Peter threw his rucksack into the back of the Renault. Condensation had clouded all the windows. Assumpta reached behind the driver's seat for the ever-ready towel, but Peter stopped her and coaxed her clumsily into the cargo bed.

"Two nights apart and we can't keep our hands off each other long enough to get to Fiona's?"

"Correct." He pulled the sliding door closed. "Just need you to myself for a minute before we jump into the next."

She knew he was right. She lay across him and put a small kiss on his neck, and he tightened his hold on her. Their mouths met again, then their tongues. She had missed the taste of him, the pull of his lips. He began his favourite pilgrimage down her neck.

A memory struck, and she laughed - inaudibly, but he could feel it.

"What?"

"I was just thinking. When I was sixteen, there was a priest in Ballykea who went around at night, shining a torch in the windows of parked cars."

"Looking for what?"

"What do you think?"

Their breath was thickening the film on the glass. He stroked her back under her shirt.

"What would you do if Father Mac pointed a torch in that window right now?" she said, reaching under his own layers.

"I'd say 'Fancy meeting you here.'"

She laughed.

"Then I'd take pity on him and give him a thrill." He brought his hand to the front of her.

She shivered, still chuckling. "You surprise me."

"Do I?"

"Constantly." Their breathing and heartbeats were speeding up, and they were pressing harder against one another. He was certainly ready.

It occurred to her that it wouldn't take much adjustment right now; she could tease him out of his fly, he could bring her skirt to her hips...and the security cameras could probably pick up the van's jostling. There were far _worse_ reasons to get arrested, but perhaps better times.

"Anyway, I doubt a torch would do much good against all this fog on the glass," he said.

"All the same, it's broad daylight."

"Mmhmm. But we really should try it sometime when we get home."

"Cill Na Sidh Woods is a good spot, I hear."

"You hear, do you?"

"Running out of horizontal surfaces in the public house, anyway."

They kept meaning to get up, but each time one tried, the other would whimper and they would both settle back into the embrace. Before they knew it, a half-hour had gone.

"Best get a move on before we run out of change," she whispered.

Having moved to the front seats, with the windows cleared and ignition started, they pulled up to the tollbooth. The attendant gave a knowing grin as she quoted the amount. "Cheaper'n a hotel, I s'pose."

They felt their faces redden.

Arriving at the flat, they spotted her friend waiting on the balcony.

"So that's Fiona."

"Yep."

"Not sure I'd have known her from your description."

"Is that right?"

"Expected someone a little more..."

"Vampy."

"Mmhmm."

"Oh, don't be fooled by the argyle vest and the angelic face."

"Really? What'm I in for?"

"Imagine Niamh, brought up as a city girl, and with way more money."

"How 'bout I stay in the van?" he joked.

Fiona greeted them in the corridor with enthusiastic hugs. Assumpta watched in amusement as Peter received his, a look of surprise on his face.

"So this is _the_ Peter Clifford." _Didn't say "Sweetcheeks." Alleluia!_

"And this is _the_ Fiona McInerney," Peter replied.

"I'll put coffee on," said Assumpta.

Fiona waited until the sound of the bean grinder put Assumpta out of earshot. "You know, Peter, looking back, I suspect she's fancied you for quite some time!"

"How'd you figure?"

"Well, very first time she spoke to me about you, she was already making fun of you."

"Is that right?"

"Something about you in goal, a ref making a bad call, and it being very, very amusing when you're angry."

Peter thought of their discussion in the pub on Christmas night. As usual, his face betrayed him.

The bean grinder stopped, and they heard water running, followed by the sound of the coffee maker kicking into action.

Assumpta returned a moment later. "What'd I miss?"

She noticed Peter's crooked smirk on at full wattage. "Oh, nothing."

"I know how he takes his, Fi. Is yours still...?"

"Like my men. Dark and bitter."

Assumpta cleared her throat and turned back to the kitchen.

Peter seemed to be enjoying this. "So you met at university?"

"Yep. Roommates first year. Couldn't understand why they'd put me with this dramatics weirdo from County Wicklow, but...she was there for me at a really tough time. Found out how amazing she really was."

"Still is," he added.

"And I was _this close _to getting her back, I'll have you know!"

"Sorry about that," he grinned.

"Must say, two things I never imagined she'd go after. English and a priest."

"Well, I'm slowly becoming less of each. Think I'll repatriate for good, now."

"Big leap of faith, I bet."

He nodded. "Don't even know if she wants marriage or a family one day."

"You hope so."

"Course."

Fiona whispered the next: "You didn't hear this from me, and I'd never speak _for_ her, but...if she's said she loves you? You're already miles ahead of anyone else. Ever."

Peter took a moment to appreciate the weight of this.

Assumpta emerged again with her small hands stretched round three mugs.

Fiona took one, her tone giving no hint of what she had said just before. "See, look at that. That's years of experience, a seasoned hostess. Be lucky to find that kind of talent anywhere."

Assumpta handed Peter a mug. "I am in the room now, you know."

* * *

The Greater Manchester Professional Singles (*Pun Intended) met once a month to hold a mixer, and the New Year's shindig was always well-attended. This year, planning fell to rookie social coordinator Jenny Clark. She intended to pull out all the stops, and as the moment of truth approached on the last night of 1997, everything was falling nicely into place.

The hotel ballroom was still nicely decked in greenery and Christmas lights, and the table linens and floating-candle centrepieces were conveniently left over from her sister's wedding in September. She'd negotiated with a friend in the business to cater the thing - simple hors d'oeuvres and pastries, bottled lagers, a rum punch, then a champagne toast at midnight, ensuring that attendees drank more than they ate, and therefore found one another more appealing as the night went on. She had spent hours burning CD mixes of carefully-selected music, lively and manic toward the beginning of the playlist, growing gradually mellower and more sensuous toward the end. For herself, she'd found a slinky cocktail dress that brought out her eyes, nicely marked down for the Boxing Day sales.

By eight o'clock, they'd passed out the last of the nametags. By nine, dancing was in full swing. Jenny accepted a cup of punch from a dark-haired man with distinctive eyebrows and an Irish lilt. His nametag said "Leonard" in careful block letters.

"So you're the mistress of ceremonies, then?"

"Just this time. We take turns."

"I'd say you've done yourself proud playing cupid." He gestured to scattered pairs already hitting it off in different corners of the room.

"You're very kind."

"I mean it."

"You're new to our socials, then?"

"That obvious?"

"Not a bad thing. I'd rather not see repeat business. It's counter to the point."

"Makes sense when you put it that way."

"How'd you hear about us?"

She seemed to have caught him in mid-sip. _Buying time. _He gulped it down. "Spur of the moment thing, really. Kept expecting friends would call tonight, but they're all out with their sweethearts. Saw a blurb about this in the paper. Figured I had nothing to lose."

The whole yarn reeked of pickup artistry, but his delivery was commendable. "Glad you came?"

"That should definitely be obvious. I can compliment your efforts again if you like."

"Well, if a few people leave here together, and a few more leave with phone numbers in their pockets, I'll know I've done my job." She pulled a small cluster of grapes from the sideboard and started on the smallest of them. "What about you, Leonard? What do you do?"

Naturally, he had just impaled a cube of sage derby with a frilly toothpick, and now his mouth was full. He raised a finger whilst he chewed, promising to answer as soon as it was polite to do so. "Accountant."

"Good on you. Secure." _And the single most popular lie among drug dealers and undercover policemen. _Either kind would be bored here. What was he after?

"Nowhere near as interesting as yours, I'm afraid." He spun the toothpick between his thumb and forefinger. "So are you a Professional Single yourself, or already a success story?"

She had to admit, he was better-looking than the usual scammers. _In for a penny,_ she figured. "No, I'm presently unattached."

"Be picky. You can afford it, believe me."

_"_Do you dance, Leonard?"

"Was it the brogue that gave me away?"

_Smooth operator, then?_ She smiled. Two could play at this.


	19. Chapter 19: One That Got Away

The balconies at Fiona's building filled with residents as 1998 rang in, everyone toasting bubbly and rattling noisemakers and cheering neighbours they otherwise hardly knew. As Fiona greeted a couple across the awning, Assumpta quietly retreated to the far corner of the terrace. Peter followed her, and moved in for his first New Year's kiss in several years.

"Never imagined a year ago tonight we'd be doing this now," he whispered.

"Well, I can't say the thought had never crossed my mind."

"You know what I mean." He turned her to face the skyline and held her from behind. "Makes you wonder what this year has planned?"

"Egan baby'll be born. Someone might marry, someone might die."

The bubbly had emboldened him slightly. "And us?"

She inhaled slowly. "Dodged a bullet so far: 1998 very nearly had me leaving Ballykea. Alone."

He squeezed her as if to ward off a jinx. "And me asking to go on retreat 'cos I was falling in love. _Had fallen._"

"Would it have helped?"

His voice wavered. "I don't think so."

"Good."

"I will need to think about what's next."

"You mean work?"

"Can't very well expect you to board me forever."

"We can figure it out. Time being, you're good help. Much cleanup as you've done for me in the past, you're probably carrying a credit balance."

"Oh, I had my own selfish reasons to stay late all those nights."

She nodded. It was no secret anymore, but still so strange to hear him say so.

"When I spoke to Father Mac on Boxing Day, he actually thought we'd been involved for months."

"What?!"

"That's what I said."

"Between him and that parking attendant..."

"And before them, Judge Bradley and that bloke from the driver licence office..."

"Sounds like we might as well be wearing signs."

He slid his thumb under the waist of her skirt and put his lips against her ear. "Well, from now on, anytime we have cause to think anyone might even assume we're having it off, I say we go right ahead and-"

"Peter!" Assumpta nodded in the direction of the four-eyed towhead who was now beaming at them.

"Don't mind me, you two," she batted her eyes innocently. "'Sumpta, have you even shown him your room? Sure he's simply exhausted."

Assumpta rolled her eyes and went inside, grabbing the rucksack that still lay by the coffee table.

"Thanks, Fiona," Peter choked.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Niamh was beginning to regret this "private party" idea. They were now thirty minutes into the new year, and she was utterly knackered. Everyone was being as irritating as possible: Padraig, Michael, and Brendan were treating the rest of the regulars to a painful a cappella rendition of "New Year's Day," peppered with drunken lyric butchery and inappropriate laughter. Siobhan kept eating all the chocolate mints. Liam and Donal were...present, which was enough. Ambrose was on duty for another hour and a half. And the little brat feeding off of her from the inside was wide awake and, apparently, breakdancing.

She spotted a bag of vinegar crisps and clutched it to her like a shield. Eating would help her stay awake, help her avoid the utterly sleazy dreams the hormones were giving her lately, help keep her hands too busy to throttle anyone. Or fondle them. She felt like a werewolf. A teetotaling, possessed werewolf. Nobody was even cute enough to ogle in here, and she didn't even have the right to a tipple to make them look cuter.

She glanced again at Siobhan, who had once more emptied the candy dish, and who hadn't had a drop of lager all night.

And who had just folded her arms and put her head down for a kip on the bar.

_No. Gotta be early menopause. Must be. Couldn't be the other. Good lord, as if things weren't weird enough!_

Niamh systematically murdered the crisps, chewing forcefully to drown out the choir from Hell as she stared at the snoring redhead.

"Newspaper says...says..."

"...Says..."

"You're hardly U2," she said through a mouthful of reconstituted potato. Suddenly, she couldn't stand another bite. Taking the stool next to Siobhan, Niamh folded her arms on the bar and put her head down as well.

* * *

Confetti carpeted the dance floor, and empty champagne flutes littered the tables. The last of the cabs had left with the last of the drunks, and even the club president had congratulated Jenny on a job well done, then left with a good-looking stranger for a room upstairs.

The only person who stuck by to help with cleanup was the would-be pickup artist, Leonard. _If indeed that is his real name. _Several rum punches and the customary bubbly (and harmless midnight kiss) had barely dulled the sheen on his charm offensive, but something about his willingness to assist rang a little more genuine. Unguarded, almost. Unless, of course, he'd read of it in a manual somewhere, and the alcohol just loosened him up. As usual, the longer Jenny evaluated it, the more complex it seemed to get.

He steered the sweeper over the floor as if it were another dance partner. "Anyone ever broken your heart, Jenny?"

Again, he was either a complete nut or an expert playing dumb.

"Everybody's had that happen," she replied noncommittally. "I mean, surely you have."

"Guess you're right. One that got away, and all that."

She collected a few empty bottles. "What makes you ask?"

He shrugged. "Spirit of the occasion." He grabbed the last eclair off a serving tray and examined it. "Who's yours?"

"You first."

Naturally, he had again employed the oops-I-just-took-a-bite trick, and was taking plenty of time to chew whilst he cooked up a response. Finally, he swallowed. "Girlfriend from university. Was about to get a place in the city with me when her mother died. She had to take over the family business. I offered to move back home with her and she refused."

They picked up opposite ends of a tablecloth, meeting halfway to fold it. "On what grounds?"

"Said she cared too much about my future."

"You believed her?"

He took the cloth to finish folding it, brushing her fingertips with his own. "For a time. Not anymore."

She was surprised to hear herself: "Mine moved away from me, too."

"Any reason?"

"We were...forbidden by certain covenants he'd undertaken."

"Married?"

"Priest."

Leonard's surprise seemed delayed. "Oh."

"I went from being his confidante when his mum fell ill, his bloody crying shoulder, to being an inconvenience he couldn't shake fast enough. We never got up to anything, no, but there were times we came damn close. When I caught up with him in the town he was 'sent to,' he said he'd gone on purpose. And yes, he said he was worried for our futures, too."

She leaned into a glass bowl and blew out the floating candles inside, remembering watching Peter blow out dozens of altar candles in front of her all those years ago. She wondered if she'd ever see a candle go out, ever smell that mix of hot wax and smoke, without picturing that mouth.

"You believe him?"

"I believe he was worried about mine. I've a hunch he'll never outrun his own problems. Sometimes I doubt if anyone really does."

"You're better off without him," Leonard said.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you how comforting that is to hear," she said coolly.

His face fell. He threw away a stack of cocktail serviettes that would never be used, and he met her eyes.

"Jenny, I'm sorry."

"Who are you really, Leonard? I hope to God not a private detective, for your own sake."

He was stunned. "You want me to leave?"

"Think you might better."

He nodded solemnly. "I am sorry, Jenny. You are remarkable. I hope you find someone wonderful."

She glimpsed remorse in his eyes as he made his exit. She wondered if it was genuine. If anyone ever was.


	20. Chapter 20: New Year Dawning

_This one's something of a "breather" installment. Calm before the storm, perhaps? Thanks again to anyone who's still following, reading, reviewing, and/or posting other fresh content here. Long live the Fic Renaissance!  
_

* * *

Peter awoke in yet another unfamiliar bed, but this time it was comfortably-sized for its two occupants. His companion was once again a human female - his very favourite one, as it happened, still wrapped round him, still using him as a pillow, still breathing on his skin. It was all he could do to pull away from her and manoeuvre his way through a shower, but the role of the houseguest made him acutely aware of morning routines. It had been a shock enough to be physically intimate with someone he loved after so many years; he couldn't yet deal with the idea of a new acquaintance seeing him in pyjamas.

Not that he'd _bothered with _any pyjamas last night...

Once shaved and dressed, he met their freckle-faced hostess in her showroom-perfect kitchen. She was herself still in plaid flannel, a long dressing gown, and slippers that looked like grey cats. Peter noticed she was writing something on a pad.

"Sleep well?" she grinned. He nodded sheepishly. She went on. "There's coffee on, or that spigot'll give you hot water for tea. Cereal all right?"

"Perfect. Thank you."

"Cupboard above the fridge. Help yourself."

He did as instructed, finding a flavour selection that would enchant any six-year-old: chocolate, fruits, marshmallows, cinnamon, honey. He opted for the last, somewhat arbitrarily, and somewhat in the hope that he'd be able to unclench his teeth by the time he was finished. He carried his bowl and mug to the table, and saw that Fiona was methodically printing "1998" over and over again on the page.

She noticed him looking. "Gets me in the habit of writing the correct date. Cements the new year in my brain, I suppose. Odd little ritual, I know."

"I'm a big fan of odd little rituals," he said.

"Guess that makes sense," she smiled back, pausing to sip her coffee. "Is it weird, leaving a vocation like that?"

There was something comforting about the obvious question no one else had asked. "Less weird after I made up my mind. The time where I was deciding what to do, where I still wasn't sure yet...that was very strange."

She seemed satisfied with this answer. "I guess none of us ever gets a guarantee on our plans."

"You were really hoping for that wine bar."

"No reason I couldn't still, really. Couple others from the old college gang might still be onboard. I just wanted so badly to have someone who knew the ropes of running a place. Someone who could handle whatever hell or high water came our way."

He grinned at the memory of a bin of very cold water. "What if you came down to Ballykissangel for a spell and shadowed her? Not quite the same thing, but..."

"Still could learn a lot, yeah. Think she'd really let some city-bred neophyte poke around behind her bar?"

"I think I'm living proof."

* * *

Leo had returned to his hotel by 2:00 a.m. He hadn't slept. He hadn't changed out of his jacket, or even pulled the "Leonard" nametag off the breast pocket. It was now 9:00, and he could theoretically check out if he wanted.

That would require getting up, moving round. He wasn't sure it was possible.

Dumb as he sounded at the time, Andrew Clifford had been quite right about the Clark woman: she was equal parts creepy and hot, could seduce you and then murder you, and you'd be more or less resigned to your fate. Leo felt a little bit murdered now. People had cried foul on his profession as a whole, sure, had called him on the carpet for underhanded tactics, even. That was part of the deal. That rolled right off his back.

But until last night, no one had ever said he was a lousy investigator. No one had given him exactly the scoop he wanted, then in the next breath effectively told him to quit - quit, full stop. That he was embarrassing himself even trying. Just as he'd never loved anyone other than Assumpta, he'd never been able to picture himself in any other line of work. Now a stranger with a debatable grip on reality had him questioning everything.

He couldn't understand why this one woman's opinion had cut him so deeply. She was obviously a headcase, throwing herself into the role of village matchmaker to sublimate the unrequited love still screaming from inside her. She was hung up on someone she could never have, an ecclesiastical hypocrite who had only grown weaker since breaking her heart.

Who had only fallen for the same woman who broke Leo's, matter of fact. Who had only failed to resist what Leo himself never could. He took no comfort in the new knowledge that it might all fall apart for Assumpta and her new man. He knew full well what Jenny Clark was going through. Maybe he was no better than she.

Leo didn't want to spend his days brooding. He never wanted to attend another singles mixer with dozens of grown men and women who were all really just carrying torches for absent others. He never wanted to stalk another cancer patient to find out if her grown children were horrible letdowns - or to learn, as he had, that the bad apples had merely fallen comfortably near the tree. He could deal with being jilted by Assumpta Fitzgerald, had done before, but the thought of wearing it so publicly made him ill now.

Was he losing his edge? In the last week, he had totally blown it with three different women. He looked at the phone for the eighteenth time that hour, ran Barbara's mobile number through his brain again.

Perhaps it was time to make it four.

* * *

Guinness often had the effect of bringing out the altruism in Brendan, and last night had illustrated this when two different women had conked out on the bar at an embarrassingly tame hour. He had sent Niamh home to bed and steered Siobhan over to the sofa, taking on party cleanup for himself and then treating poor lampshade-clad Fionn to a late-night stroll. Now he awoke with his own head on the sofa next to Siobhan, Fionn curled against his lap, and several muscles and joints crying out for mercy.

The rattle of a key in the pub door pulled him the rest of the way out of sleep. What time was it?!

"Good afternoon," Assumpta greeted, the smirk clear in her voice even before his eyes came into focus.

"You're not serious?" he grumbled. She was propping the door open. The daylight and cold wind from outside felt like penance.

As if on cue, in marched the ex-curate, rucksack on his shoulders and Assumpta's duffel in his hand. "Happy New Year, Brendan. Fun last night?" He had a grin splashed at the usual weird angle across his face.

Siobhan stirred now as well. "Peter, did you ever have Bell's palsy by any chance?"

Assumpta bent down now to look at Fionn, her expression taking a sudden and disconcerting turn for the maternal. "Oh, my poor boy. How is he?"

"As you can see, he was the life of the party last night," Brendan winced, indicating the lampshade collar as he tried to coax blood back into his own legs.

"You two were tending him this whole time? I can't believe it. Thank you."

Siobhan couldn't resist. "Such gratitude. Almost as if someone's been a good influence on her."

"Guarantee you most have said the opposite," Peter chuckled. Assumpta swatted his knee from her spot on the floor, and he knelt beside her to check out the dog's incision for himself. He gave the animal an affectionate stroke and indicated his intention to tote their luggage upstairs.

"He's recovering well," Siobhan assured her. "Be back to his usual rowdiness in no time."

Assumpta nodded, steeling herself. "What do I owe you?"

Siobhan pulled an estimate from her pocket. "Could also do a week's lunches and dinners, if you'd rather."

Assumpta considered this. "Pint of Harp'd be extra, mind."

"Fair call. Haven't had much of a yen for the stuff of late. Tastes odd."

"Brendan, your next few are on the house as well. Thanks."

"Gonna put yourself out of business if you keep at this," Brendan smiled. "Reminds me, though. Niamh requests a ring or a visit at your earliest convenience."

The publican's face took on a more familiar scowl.

"Problem?"

"We've not had a civilised conversation since..." she cut herself off.

"Christmas night?" Siobhan prompted. Assumpta went red and excused herself.

"Still acting like there's a secret left to keep," Brendan mused.

Siobhan shot a look at him. "Lucky for us the younger set's completely self-absorbed, so."

"You're right."

"What else is new?"

"Don't rub it in."


	21. Chapter 21: Don't Worry I Ate Everything

Editor-in-Chief Barbara Crabtree was midway through her new yoga video when she realised she hadn't heard her mobile phone ring since half-seven the evening before. Given that Leo McGarvey had promised he was hot on the trail of a church scandal, and that he'd promised to meet a deadline of presstime tonight, she found it odd. Still, it seemed like bad luck to abandon her fitness resolution just to check voicemail on the first day of the year, so she put the trouble out of her mind until the very last downward-facing-dog was complete.

Having finally shut off the obnoxiously serene pep-talks of the improbably-flat-chested video instructor, and rolled up the wafer-thin mat for storage under the sofa, Barbara pulled her purse off the hook on the wall. She reached deep into it like a spandex-clad Mary Poppins, pushing aside her billfold, her makeup compact, her cigarettes, her prescriptions...where was her cel phone? She could feel her blood pressure creeping upward. She dumped the handbag out onto the couch, leafing through the half-empty breath mint tins and restaurant receipts, moving the chequebook to make sure it wasn't obscuring something...

Nothing.

She mentally retraced her steps the previous evening. There had been the gala fundraiser for the children's hospital, the dinner, the silent auction. The drunken society reporter in the ladies' room. The shared cab ride home.

_Damn thing could be absolutely anywhere._

She rifled through the pockets of her peacoat, finding only raffle tickets and spare change. In a desperate concession to her own absent-mindedness, Barbara finally picked up the landline handset and dialled her own number.

Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the bath.

The ringing on the line stopped. An automated voice apologised, saying the voice mailbox was full.

Her heart pounded. She dialled again.

As she approached the master suite, she could hear a pathetic humming noise emerging from somewhere within the unmade bed. She shook the duvet and her lifeline fell to the floor in an unceremonious thud. She turned the mobile over in her palm. It was nearly out of juice, and she had missed a dozen calls. Bad sign.

She strode into her home office with one phone in each hand. She docked the cordless, plugged in the mobile to charge, and waited for her computer to boot up, then for the modem to connect. It felt like eternity before a carrier signal came through. Finally, she got to her email inbox. Four spams, a moronic chain letter from the in-laws, and one message from Leo.

**_Barbara,_**

**_Haven't been able to reach you today. I'm having serious doubts about my ability to carry this story through objectively - a personal conflict of interest has come to light. In the interest of professional ethics, I have to recuse myself, but I've attached my findings thus far._**

"Like hell," Barbara hissed at the screen.

**_If you want to assign another reporter to follow this through, I've included a list of contacts and leads. Otherwise, I leave it to your discretion to print it, or not, as is. Let me know._**

The nerve - and, paradoxically, the lack of it - was staggering. Barbara wasn't the least bit fooled; Leo's personal stake in the story had been evident from the beginning. He'd worn on his sleeve his eagerness to reconnect with his old girlfriend on holiday, and when he made contact from Ballykissangel, it was perfectly obvious what he'd stepped into. What had happened, what Barbara was _bloody tired _of seeing happen, was last-minute cold feet. He couldn't decide if his job was worth a little delayed guilt, so he wanted his boss to decide for him, maybe stick another writer's byline on it to spare him the consequences.

_The coward!_

She dashed off a reply.

**_Leo,_**

**_Sorry, cel was out of commission. I'll read it now. Please assume it's going to press, with revisions at my whim, unless you contact me on my home phone in the next hour to explain why it shouldn't - and if not, why I shouldn't fire you. _**

**_I trust you have my home number._**

She went to get her cigarettes whilst the file download progressed.

* * *

Niamh opened her front door to a best friend who'd been more like a stranger for the past week. She said nothing.

"Brendan said you needed to talk to me?"

She only nodded.

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "Can I, erm, come in?"

By the time they reached the kitchen, Assumpta was getting fed up. "You want to tell me?"

Niamh launched into another of her famous bad impressions. "'How was New Year's, Niamh? Thanks for holding down the place so I could run off to Dublin.'"

Assumpta had never been fond of this particular book, but she was familiar enough to take a page from it. "'No trouble, 'Sumpta. Could use the money, got to have a party like I wanted. Don't worry, I ate everything in the fridge in case it might spoil before you got home.'"

Niamh's voice grew more shrill now. "'Fantastic. Glad you had a good time. It never occurred to me that you have a giant bloodsucking parasite feeding off you and you might be exhausted. It never occurred to me that my insatiable desires for sex and travel might be causing you all sorts of trouble!'"

"Niamh!"

The pregnant woman collapsed at the table in a heap of sobs. The sight of her had a perplexing effect on Assumpta, first driving her fury to its upper limit, then shattering it.

"Stay there for a minute," Assumpta said. "Make you a cuppa tea, okay?" She put on a kettle, and found a box of tissues in the sitting room.

"Biscuits in the pantry," Niamh said weakly.

Biscuits, tea, and tissue seemed to establish a cease-fire.

"I fink I meeb a mapermity weave," said Niamh through a mouthful of shortbread.

"Sounds reasonable."

"An' I feew wike you took abvamtage," she continued.

Assumpta thought this was ridiculous, but she sipped her tea until the urge to snap was past. It was a little pearl of journalism-school wisdom from Leo, long ago: when unsure what to say, keep your mouth full for a moment. Sure enough, by the time the burn in her chest had cooled, she was calm again.

"I am sorry about...all this mess. We really didn't want anyone to be hurt. I know you were."

Niamh had finally swallowed her biscuit. "Peter said the same."

They regarded one another for a moment. Then Niamh dumped three more lumps of sugar into her cup.

"You and Fiona would get on like a house on fire, you know that?"

Niamh started bawling again.

"Oh, Niamh, what have I done now?"

"You ran off to see her. You couldn't even talk to me!"

Assumpta felt a dark laugh rising in her belly. She tamped it down with another bite of shortbread. "You've gotta be kiddin'! You're not jealous of my old best friend?!"

"How much sooner did she know?!"

"Quite honestly? She beat you by several hours. Feel better?"

The trademark pout was in full force, coupled with wide eyes and a swollen nose. "Only that?"

"Yup."

"You never told anyone you loved him."

"No."

"Why not?!"

"Because I thought nothing would ever come of it. Because I thought it terribly unfair to make anyone else keep that confidence. Especially you."

"Normal people can tell their friends these kinds of things."

"I'm not normal people, Niamh. Never have been. You met my ma before she died. Sure you have some idea how well the Fitzgerald family ever took it when you spoke about what's in your heart."

"Is this why you kept so quiet with Enda and Leo?"

"No, I kept quiet about _them_ because I didn't feel _enough_. Niamh, believe me, I wouldn't have caused this big of a mess if I thought anyone else in the world could make me feel-"

"All right, all right, eugh."

"Sorry."

Calm was washing back in, a wave at a time. "I guess if you had it that bad, I should be grateful. Kinda weird to hear you talk like that."

"Can you forgive me, then?"

Niamh took a long, slow breath. "I'm getting there." Another sip, now. "So what'll he do?"

"Stay and help me run the pub, for now."

"Eugh."

"Well, my best help is a little too pregnant! Makes you feel better, I'm terrified." This made Niamh look up. Assumpta continued: "Look, my parents ran that place my whole life, and they did a beautiful job of it. But if they were good business partners, they never should have married. They were always absolutely miserable at the end of the day. With each other. With me. I never want Peter to talk to me the way my father talked to her. I never want to look at him the way she looked at Da'. I haven't a clue what I'm doing here, Niamh. How's that for opening up?"

"He couldn't hate you if he tried," she whispered. "Part of me always wondered, really. Just couldn't face it."

"I don't blame you. Neither could we."

They heard Ambrose's footsteps on the stairs, but it was too late to compose themselves. He took one look at the women, hugging at the table, sniveling into each other's shoulders, and went right back up.

* * *

The Internet cafe had kicked Leo out just minutes after he sent the email to Barbara, and by then he had already long checked out from his hotel. He hadn't heard back, and he was now quite unreachable in the absence of a mobile or a car phone. The matter was in her hands.

He looked forward to getting home, getting back to his own car. He felt strangely numb to the possibility that his livelihood might already have screeched to a halt, or if not, that he'd doubtless severed some ties for good. He could find a new career, or force himself to get over Assumpta once and for all.

It was a new year, after all. At least something had to change. Now, for better or worse, it was sure to.


	22. Chapter 22: The Trouble with Dog Collars

When Kathleen opened for business, Helen Heckler was already at the door.

"You have to read this," she said, steering the shopkeeper inside with a bundled paper.

"I am really more of the broadsheet kind," Kathleen protested.

"Oh, good heavens. You carry_ The Independent_, and it's tabloid size."

"I don't carry redtops! And I'd hardly want to sully my mind with-"

Helen was adamant. "You'll want to see this. Believe me." She spread out the paper on the counter.

Kathleen reluctantly bent over it, reading glasses at the ready.

_**Keep it in your frock, Father: **_  
_**Why Irish village went shopping for a new curate.**_

The headline was disgusting and the subheading weak. The file photograph of Peter Clifford was unflattering - that obnoxious uneven smile made him look at once smug and moronic - but it was not in and of itself damning.

Kathleen skimmed the article, picking up a few snippets here and there. Little came as a surprise, but she felt her heartburn creeping back in.

"Helen, I've seen enough."

"It'll affect business, Kath-"

"Enough, I tell you!" Kathleen marched past Helen and out the front door. She looked across the street, then back at the paper on her counter. Without a word, she snatched the paper up, bound it with an elastic, and carried it over, setting it at the base of the blue pub door.

"Kathleen, what on Earth?!" Helen called after her. Kathleen shushed in reply and scurried back inside the shop.

Like a charm, right about then Peter Clifford emerged, bleary-eyed and barely dressed, to let the dog out for morning business. He spotted the paper at his feet and picked it up blankly, almost as if he had expected it. A moment later, Assumpta's male companions retreated inside.

* * *

Peter had been tied up on the phone for an hour whilst Assumpta showered, dressed, and started breakfast from what few scraps the ravenous Niamh had left in her wake. She stopped at the reception desk to give her new right hand a coffee, which he accepted gratefully. It sounded as though he was booking yet another room.

Assumpta noticed a newspaper on the desk, shrugged, and took it back into the kitchen with her.

Unrolling it, she noticed it was already open to an inside page, and a below-the-fold article had a red ink circle surrounding it.

When she saw the picture, her appetite disappeared. She forced herself to read each sentence, though not in order, and many of them twice.

Peter finally got off the phone, and this time it didn't immediately ring again. He swept into the kitchen, empty mug in hand. "We're booked up for the week."

"Next week?" she murmured.

"This week. One more guest and I'll need to put my things in your room."

For some reason, this put her over the breaking point. Tears began to fall on the page like lemmings off a cliff.

"Did you know Leo was following you?"

Peter looked down at the article. "Oh, no." He braced himself protectively over her shoulders. They were shaking. "He did follow me up to the church a couple times."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I thought at most he might want a fight, Assumpta! I didn't think he'd be doing this!"

She shrugged him off. "Yeah, well, he tailed your family all over Manchester. Jenny Clark, too."

Peter looked horrified. "I had no idea."

"She was your 'bloody crying shoulder' when your mother was diagnosed, we find, and then you 'couldn't get rid of her fast enough.'"

"Assumpta!"

"Peter, I knew you two had a history, but-"

"It wasn't like that!"

"Then what was it like? Because it starts to sound like you came to this parish knowing you couldn't rein it in. Like it could've been anyone, and I just fit the bill. It was a foregone conclusion!"

Peter's fuse was longer than Assumpta's, harder to spark, too. But once lit, it burnt up faster.

"That's pretty arrogant on your part!" he spat. "If you were so irresistible from the beginning, maybe I should have walked away from my vocation sooner! Maybe the first time your ex was in town, asking me why it seemed like you were 'hiding something,' I ought to have saved us all some trouble and served myself to both of you on a silver tray!"

Fionn was whimpering at the raised voices. Assumpta looked down at him, then up at Peter. Warning.

"I've an entire pub to ready for what I can only guess are a bunch of sex maniac tourists with a fetish for vestments," she hissed. "Go for a walk. If anyone's behind you this time, take it easy on the benefit of the doubt, will ya!"

Peter put Fionn on his lead and whisked out of the room, his footfalls as infuriatingly soft as ever.

Assumpta returned to the nauseating tidbits Leo had plucked from the confessional.

_**"In a candid moment with Parish Priest Frank MacAnally, Mr. Clifford admitted he had no remorse for his actions."**_

"Not bloody likely," Assumpta said out loud.

The phone rang again.

"Ugh, like a hole in the head," Assumpta grumbled on her way to it.

* * *

Brendan recognized the futility of angling on a day like this, but he thought it might be the best way to ward off questions as the buzz of the day's news overtook the town. When people saw a man fishing, they kept a more respectful distance, and they tolerated coarser language.

Approaching in the distance he saw a lanky man and a dog in a cone. Both of them looked as if they'd been kicked.

The one man who wouldn't leave Brendan be as he fished. As it happened, the one man he wouldn't mind speaking to.

"Ah, Mr. Clifford. The toast of..."

"Nowhere, apparently," Peter said with a sad smile.

"How'd Assumpta take it?"

"Oh, you know how laid-back and unflappable she is," Peter droned.

"She'll get over it."

Peter looked at him through the sides of his eyes.

"Oh, as if you've never had a spat before?" Brendan looked out on the water.

"I know. It's just different when..."

"When she's seen you naked?"

Peter pulled a face.

"It's a different fight. I do know about it. More vulnerable, easier to get defensive in a hurry. When you were friends, there was an understanding, a boundary. Without it..."

"Yeah." Peter picked up a stone, then thought better of it. "What if she changes her mind? What if I've made a mistake?"

Brendan reeled in his line. "You know, a gorgeous redhead once told me a story about a dog. Care to hear it?"

Peter nodded.

"Once upon a time, there was a dog."

"Brilliant. Anything more to it?"

"Shh. He was a good dog. Not the most obedient dog, mind," Brendan knelt to scratch Fionn's ears, "and he ate some questionable foods. But he was loyal, had a big heart. Do anything in the world for his mistress-"

"Brendan!"

Brendan nodded toward the steeple. "Figure of speech, Peter. Get your mind out of the muck. Ahem. Anyway, this dog. One day, someone in a long coat put him in a plastic collar. Sounds like a small thing. It was actually very important. Served a few purposes, above all to remind the world he was a little different, and perhaps also to keep him from scratching certain itches-"

"Brendan!"

"You want to hear the story or not? It's almost done."

"God help me."

"Thing with the collar was, it made him see everything through a tunnel. This made him focus very well on certain things, better than other normal dogs. Helped him understand those things better, again, very important. But then one day, when the collar came off, the dog had to be very careful not to get overwhelmed by the big picture."

Peter knew he had been taken for a ride, sure enough. "So what ended up happening to the dog?"

"Lived happily with the publican. And occasionally had terrible gas."

"Not funny."

"You're laughin', aren't ya?"

"Brendan, promise me something."

"What's that?"

"Promise that you'll never write any children's books?"

Brendan shouted after him as he led the setter away from the waterside: "Bite your tongue! I'm a regular James Herriot!"


	23. Chapter 23: When English Eyes are Crying

_A/N: Forgive any artistic licence taken herein; I don't remember if we ever actually saw any characters chop onions. Oh, I remember Peter's cooking scene from "The Reckoning," but (A) I didn't notice the ingredients because I was looking at other things on the screen at that moment *cough*; and (B) I fully intend to rewrite that one later anyway, IF I ever get through these blasted twelve days of Christmas; and (C) food preparation was the least of that episode's shortcomings anyway, beyond the obvious. Good lord, even my author notes have problems with pacing and focus! _

_I've gotten ahead of myself, and I've gone off-point: This is my continuity, here. And **someone** in this world must surely suffer as I have suffered. _

* * *

Fiona stuffed one last jumper into the Samsonite and congratulated herself on a job well done.

Several jobs well done, actually. In chronological order: she had resisted the urge to phone Leo with a piece of her mind; she had gotten through his article without puking; and she had successfully tricked Peter into booking a room under an assumed name. Her "American tourist masquerading as a Canadian" accent was clearly better than she thought - though Assumpta mightn't have fallen for it so easily. She gave a quiet thanks for her good luck to catch the right person on the phone.

It was, perhaps, a little wicked to sneak up this way, but Fiona had always preferred to learn her swimming strokes in the deep end of the pool. She could only count on an accurate specimen of the lifestyle if her visit was unexpected. What better time than now, when the scandal-chasing pervert-tourist brigade was about to descend on the village?

This was_ not_ frivolous. This was research. She reasoned that even if she had never met any of the principals involved, she would be making her own wild-times pilgrimage based entirely on the filth she had read about. Though she'd never confess it, she also felt a need to replace the last man she had gone to bed with. Cleanse the palate, maybe. Update the log. A village full of randy travellers would serve both purposes. And it had taken her an hour to get through, and the affable ex-curate had cheerfully informed "Laura Bowering" that she'd nabbed the next-to-last available room for the weekend.

And if Assumpta actually_ liked_ Fiona's ideas for capitalising on the temporary horndog population, so much the better.

She forced the suitcase shut and hoisted it off the bed.

The hell with that inkslinger Leo McGarvey - though perhaps someone owed him some chocolates for inadvertently stimulating the local economy. If anyone had emerged from college an expert sleuth, it was business graduate Fiona McInerney! Oh, this was brilliant. This deserved a roll of Callard and Bowser.

* * *

Peter returned to the pub after he and his canine charge had time enough to cool down. A voice came over the balustrade at the top of the stairs.

"Better turn in your key, Peter."

So this was it. She was changing her mind after all. He looked up, keenly aware of the nakedness of his neck, feeling like a wild animal baring its throat in surrender.

"Assumpta..."

"You were right. We ran out of rooms. Moved your things to my quarters."

_Oh._ Was he so out of practise? Was he not supposed to be? "We need to talk."

"Plenty of time for that while you help me chop vegetables."

She descended the stairs and led him into the kitchen.

_Onions._ In over his head after all.

"Mind if I light a candle before we get into this?"

"Not sure I have one."

"Well then can we do this under cold water?"

"Sink's full at the moment. Quit stalling, and quit sounding perverted."

"Right."

And so it was he was already in tears before he even broached the subject. He supposed he should be grateful for the excuse. In reality, he was kicking himself for failing to consider his ridiculous sensitivity problem before he signed up for an indefinite period of kitchen duty.

"'Sumpta, what I said this morning..."

"What about it?"

"I was needlessly cruel."

"I'm over it," she muttered. Her extreme prejudice with the chef's knife said otherwise.

"There are things you have a right to know." Already his baby-greens were stinging.

"So spit them out."

"When Mum got sick, I had a very hard time of it. Jenny had been through it with an aunt, she offered a lot of hope, a lot of encouragement. I'm sure you know how frightening it can be when your mother learns she has cancer. I was grateful for a friend who understood. And whose story ended well."

Assumpta nodded, not losing her place in the work before her, but not moving forward with it either.

Peter went on. "I knew we were getting too close, spending too much time alone. I realised priests weren't supposed to have those kinds of friends, so I pulled away. I asked to be sent elsewhere before anything got out of hand."

"Peter-"

"No, hear me out." His eyes were officially burning now. "When I got here and I met you, I told myself I couldn't keep running away. Either I could overcome my feelings or I could learn to live with them...but they just kept getting stronger. Whatever trouble I had before, this blew it out of the water."

"Peter..."

He squeezed his eyes shut. It felt as though he'd poured acid in them. "Not done, Assumpta. You have to believe I never planned any of this. You have to give me more credit than that, especially if I'm going to live here and work here and-"

"Peter, shut up for five seconds and open your eyes!"

He realised he couldn't, really. He could manage a squint, but only just.

"That's not normal, you know."

"I thought this was what everyone went through?"

"A few tears, sure. This is just ridiculous! Are you allergic?"

"I don't think so. I can eat them," he said.

He felt her hands on his biceps, felt her steer him to the corner and seat him on the bench. A moment later, he felt a wet cloth over his eyes, now swollen totally shut. Temporarily blind, he felt his other senses heighten: the scent of the produce on the cutting board; the squeak of the door opening to ventilate the room; the hiss of a pot of broth heating up; small hands pulling his head into a soft but narrow lap; cool water warming on his skin.

"Swear I never planned any of this either," she said, her fingertips raking over his scalp. "No offence, but if I custom-ordered the man of my dreams..."

"Assumpta..."

"Oh, make no mistake. He'd look just like you."

So this was how it went; you lost your eyesight for a little while, and she caressed you and paid you compliments. _Should have chopped onions here sooner,_ he thought.

"And, come to think of it, he'd have your voice. Maybe even your funny accent. Don't tell anyone I said so, 'course..." she stroked his ear.

Free of any visual input, and drunk on other stimuli, he felt braver somehow. "Are you afraid? Have we moved too fast?"

"Not sure we had a choice, under the circumstances. It was kind of all or nothing by design. But I'm petrified, yes."

"Me, too."

"That helps."

"Sorry I've been so little help with the vegetables."

"You'll make it up to me, I'm sure."

They relaxed in silence a moment. He felt a cool breeze on his face.

"You know what might be fun to try blindfolded?" he murmured.

He felt a pinch from Assumpta, and heard a disgusted grumble that was definitely not from her.

"Sorry about that, Father Mac. He didn't hear you come in."

Assumpta stood, dismissing his head to the bench like a stubborn housecat. Peter offered a goofy wave without moving the cloth from his eyes.

"Hate to interrupt anything," sighed the priest, "but in the words of your countrymen, 'I read the news today, oh, boy.'"

"I am listening, Father, I just can't look at you right now."

Peter heard his former colleague sniff the air.

"Onion troubles?"


	24. Chapter 24: Cut from a Different Cloth

"Does this always happen when you cut onions, Peter?" Father Mac asked, picking up a potato peeler - and getting to work.

Assumpta covered her shock the best she could. "Pleasure to meet you. You must be the new priest. Did anyone tell you on your way in that you bear a striking resemblance to one Frank MacAnally?"

"Oh, you're quite welcome. Speaking of which, the new curate should arrive tonight."

"You want me to make meself scarce?" said the man with the rag on his eyes.

"It might be wise."

Peter groaned.

Father Mac went on. "Naturally, I can't ask you to leave town in your condition. I would appreciate a heads-up if either of you sees him first. I've no idea whether he's picked up any newspapers on his travels. Either way, I'd think a sort of briefing will be in order."

Assumpta was careful not to gesture with the knife as she spoke. "Don't worry, Father. With Peter's new eyewear, they'll hardly recognise him as the man in the photograph."

Father Mac set the denuded tuber in a bowl and started in on another. "Wasn't it a terrible picture, by the way?" he laughed.

The friendly helpfulness was unnerving. She couldn't handle it anymore. "Father, if you're not asking us to leave town, why are you really here?"

"To help you prepare food. To check in with a parishioner who took a beating in the media today." He scooped up the pile of peelings and carried them to the trash. "To manipulate you, by means of guilt and paranoia, into doing my biddings." He let the lid slam shut.

"Figured there's a first time for everything, then?" she shot back.

"Ah, the sarcasm, it burns!" Peter wailed.

Assumpta didn't miss a beat. "Took to it well enough-"

"For an outsider, I know, I know."

Assumpta turned to face the man with the potatoes. "So without further ado, what's the blackmail?"

"Well, the rumour is that you're expecting a minor tourist boom as a result of this unexpected publicity." The man was eerily adept at skinning small round things. Assumpta tried to ignore it. He continued: "I'd like to host a fundraiser for the parish and put the boom to good use. I'd like your help in organizing it, and I'd want you to publicise it to your lodgers here. I've spoken to Brian Quigley, who assures me he's full of ideas."

Assumpta's hand tightened reflexively on the handle of the knife.

"I might have let it slip about last time," Peter admitted. "The stout, the roof..."

"If you weren't infirm right now, I might have to kill you," she said.

* * *

Father David Tierney had driven into town expecting a sleepy hamlet. Instead, he found crowds and ridiculous traffic all the way from Wicklow. As he pulled in front of St. Joseph's he saw a row of trailers set up in the churchyard. When he finally came upon a parking spot, he wended his way through the crowds in search of the cottage with the red door. Realising he would need to brave a veritable mosh pit to reach it, he decided to settle his nerves with a pint first.

He shook a few paltry raindrops out of his sandy fade haircut, and pointed his aquiline nose like a compass into the chaos. The local public house was something of a zoo; the auburn-haired woman checking people in at reception looked harried, and the gangly man behind the bar had bloodshot eyes. Dave pulled up a stool and waited for a chance to order.

Once safely behind a glass of stout, he tried to catch the bartender's ear. "Is it always so hectic?"

The man smiled. "Feast or famine, really. I'm sure most everyone's here tonight for the same reason."

"Doubt I am," Dave smiled back. "You don't sound local yourself."

"Manchester bred and born. You?"

"Cork. Dave Tierney," he put out his hand.

"Peter Clifford." The barman seemed to be checking if this might mean something to David. David wondered if Peter was a fugitive. Perhaps he was just arrogant; David had met enough barkeeps in his 35 years, and some of them fancied themselves local celebrities. He gave this one his best wide baby-blue stare, the better to suggest his name rang no bells.

"So you're not here for the..." Peter interrupted himself to take another order, then returned. "Do you mind my asking?"

David unzipped his windbreaker enough to show his collar underneath. "Work. I'm the new curate."

"Got your work cut out for you," Peter replied. "They tell you anything about your predecessor?" David shook his head. Peter seemed to be enjoying this. "Piece of work, that one. All sorts of trouble."

"Figured there must be something off. All very sudden by the sound of it."

"Sex scandal," Peter said.

"Ah. What kind?"

"Pardon?"

"What kind of sex scandal?"

Peter looked put on the spot. David was pleased with himself.

"See, the way I figure it, these things are on a sliding scale. Are you a Catholic, Peter?"

There was a beat of silence. "Lapsed, you might say."

"Ah. And you're old enough to have read about a sex scandal or two."

Peter squirmed. The smartarse was finally learning his place. "Yes."

"You familiar with the phrase, 'dead girl or a live boy'?"

"Grown woman, this one."

David yawned pointedly. Peter's eyes went wide.

Two young men entered now, carrying a life-sized cardboard cutout of a man - faced away from David, so he couldn't make out who it was. The woman who'd been at the front desk, though, could see it well enough. She marched over, livid.

"Get on with you. Take that thing out of here."

Three punters, a woman and two men, were laughing from the far end of the bar.

"It's all right, Assumpta. Mr. Quigley said the tourists need to know where everything started," said the buck-toothed young man.

"Be good for business," said his taller sidekick. "We can put him out front!"

"Over my dead body!" she replied.

The young men exchanged shrugs and rested the cutout against the base of the stairs. It looked like a pixelated version of the man at the bar, but in a black suit and a clerical collar. It was astoundingly poor resolution, as though they had blown up a very small photograph. A speech bubble extended from his mouth: "Welcome to Ballykissangel, Ireland's Own Sin City!"

"Better still," said the tall stooge. "Watch this!" He pulled a string on the side of the cutout's head, and a badly-grafted on eyelid winked at them.

Peter's face fell.

David choked on a mouthful of stout.

* * *

Fiona finally reached Fitzgerald's about half-nine. It looked nothing like she imagined from the outside, and everything like she hoped on the inside. She dawdled for a moment in the reception lounge, figuring her friends must be rushed off their feet in the bar.

At first, she thought the next man through the door was Peter, but this man had actual shoulders to speak of, and he wore glasses.

"Place is hopping," he said. His voice was similar.

Fiona smiled. Time for an icebreaker: "In town for the sex scandal?"

"Something like that."

Assumpta appeared in the doorway and froze in her tracks.

"Fiona, what on Earth?!"

"Heard you might be inundated."

"I have no place to put you!"

"Reserved under 'Bowering.' I can explain!"

As Assumpta scrambled for the booking record and the key to room 4, Peter ducked in, looking panicked. "'Sumpta, we're out of-" he also froze. "Andy, what on Earth?!"

"Drew the long straw. Kate's home explaining everything to Mum and Father Burt."

"Oh, God...We have no place to put you! You'll need - oh. Hi, Fiona."

"Evenin'."

"Oh, um. Assumpta, this is my brother Andrew. Andy, Assumpta Fitzgerald and her friend Fiona McInerney." He looked dizzy. "I have a feeling you're both hungry?"

"God, yes," the two strangers cried in unison.

"Peter, what're we out of?"

"Dinner special."

"The vegetable cobbler?"

"Correct."

"We made a short tonne of it!"

"And they ate it."

Assumpta pushed Peter behind the desk and scurried into the kitchen.

Fiona watched the two brothers exchange looks.

"Andy?" Peter said.

"Mmm?"

"Did you think to book a room anywhere?"

Andy offered a weak smile, and Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head, following Assumpta into the kitchen.

Fiona gave the new arrival a grin and went to look for a table in the bar. A single two-top was available. The pair of them alighted on it at the same time, then deferred to one another.

"Only one thing to do that makes any kind of sense," she said.

"Much obliged," he returned.

"Dinner specials sold out, so," she mused.

"More of a dessert man, meself," he said, pale green eyes shining into dark blue ones through two sets of prescription lenses. At the next table, a drunken fortysomething complained of his disappointment in the ambiance - nowhere near the meet-market atmosphere he'd expected.

The tiny village suddenly seemed full of potential.

* * *

_Thanks for being patient with all my OCs; I promise they aren't here to steal the show from the canons, nor are they worthy of it. Next installment should bring things closer to normal; I've been travelling (and getting a job offer!) this last week, so that's why the updates have been slower in coming._

_Happy Christmas where applicable, and peace and love regardless! Feedback cherished as always._


	25. Chapter 25: Sour Notes

Saturday morning was a mess. With every room booked, Assumpta had assigned laundry duty to Peter as she ventured into Cilldargan to replenish the pantry, her self-declared journeywoman Fiona at her side. He was surprised to see, over the hill of bed linens in his arms, his own brother at the far end of the hallway.

"Where'd you stay last night?"

Andy cleared his throat. "Erm. Up at the...thing, with the...You know."

"Quigley's trailers?"

"Yes! That." He looked relieved to have an alibi.

Peter decided to leave it there. "Right."

"Give you a hand with the housekeeping?"

"Could do. Help me make up the rest of the beds."

As the two of them worked their way through the remaining guest rooms, they were confronted with an impressive array of aftermath: bottles, condom wrappers, the occasional puddle of spilt massage oil.

"Are they always like this round here?" Andy wondered.

"Think we caught the attention of a particular market with the latest press," Peter said, trying to touch the sheets as little as possible.

"Any publicity's good publicity, I s'pose."

Peter shot Andy a look.

They trudged down to the laundry with their armloads of whites. Peter got the first of several hot loads underway, being sure to add sufficient bleach. He turned to his younger brother.

"How's Mum taking it?"

"Haven't checked in with Kate since last night, but as of then..."

Peter cringed. "What?"

"She, Mum, and Father Burt might've maybe got drunk on Chardonnay and possibly shared an out-loud theatrical reading of the article."

"They were still laughing when she picked up the phone, weren't they?"

"Erm. All very hazy." This earned another look. "Okay. Yeah. May've been, yeah."

Peter's forced scowl was no match for the chuckle rising under it. "We're a right bunch of sickos."

"That's just what the reporter said."

* * *

That evening seemed hell-bent on eating Assumpta alive.

It wasn't enough that customers were throwing themselves at her; they were also making repeated passes at her extended staff of barbacks. Peter blushed at the first few clumsy advances; after the ninth or tenth, he had that icy gleam in his eyes. Fiona and Andrew seemed to be much more at ease with the attention, almost as though they were competing to see who could get a better tip out of a lecherous tourist. Assumpta noticed them looking at one another quite a bit in general. She told herself she was imagining things, but found herself haunted by the thought of a quiver of hedonistic four-eyed children who simply ate bags of sugar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The crowd was no better behaved. In addition to their leers and pinches, they were subjecting the staff to karaoke for tips. It had been Brian Quigley's idea for the parish fundraiser: a payola system in which the biggest bidders took priority in the queue, and if audience members added more tips, even better. Fiona had masterminded the playlist with a religious theme to maximize crowd participation. This was why the set so far had consisted of a histrionic college girl murdering "Like a Prayer," a drunken Padraig butchering "Father Figure," and now, most perplexingly of all, an entire group of business types slaughtering "Mysterious Ways" like a choir from hell. For his part, Kathleen's nephew Daniel was enjoying his turn as deejay. Still, most of these people's voices were bad enough to sterilise livestock at a few hundred feet.

As if sensing the turn of Assumpta's thoughts toward matters veterinary, Siobhan now ponied up her generous bid. She ascended the platform to try her hand at "Son of a Preacher Man."

"It doesn't even make sense," Assumpta muttered over the opening strains. "It's not even about Catholics!"

"Never mind that, Assumpta! Will you look at the money in the jar!" Father Mac squealed, his eyes shining above his third whiskey. Brian Quigley patted him on the back. Assumpta shot Fiona a silent signal to cut the parish priest off if he tried to order again.

At least Siobhan, while not quite Dusty Springfield, could actually carry a tune. Assumpta noted with amusement that Brendan looked positively lovestruck watching the vet croon - and territorially fierce as she made her way back to her stool amid hoots and hollers.

And if nothing else, the shrinking violets in the crowd were certainly buying more drinks to stoke their courage for a turn at the microphone. Assumpta glanced at the opposite end of the bar, where Peter was leaning to a tense, hushed conversation with Father Dave. The new priest looked cavalier, a little nonplussed maybe; his predecessor was moving his eyes wildly, looking incredulous. Something Father Dave said brought the pendulum-eyes to a standstill, at which point they blinked slowly once. Peter turned and walked to the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back in self-restraint.

Assumpta had been trying, at her sweetheart's behest, to give the new curate a fair shot, a little benefit of the doubt. This sort of thing shot holes through her resolve. Spotting Niamh whispering into a freckled ear nearby, Assumpta realised her old and present best friends were scheming and sharing a laugh at a nearby table. She called to Fiona to keep an eye on the taps, and followed Peter into the kitchen.

"What was that?"

"It's nothing."

"Oh, you're foolin' me completely."

"We had a little disagreement about the appropriateness of the fundraiser."

"Hell, I question the appropriateness of the fundraiser. Brian and Fiona's little karaoke enterprise seems in poor taste. But it's helping the parish and it's good for business."

"Poor taste?! They're out there making a mockery of us!"

"It's their church, Peter."

"Funny, given what Dave said."

This confused her. "Sorry?"

He looked away from her. "I said these people wouldn't be able to look him in the eye after Mass tomorrow. He said these are tourists, and they won't likely be at Mass tomorrow, so it matters little what they think. I said it matters what everyone thinks. He said if I cared so much, I might have thought of that before..."

"Oh, God."

He was shaking, and his voice took on that icy quiet again. "The whole thing's just so cynical. You know?"

For a moment, it was if they'd stepped into a time warp. Here they were in the kitchen, discussing another major conflict between the faith he professed and the hypocrisy in its institutional delivery. Only now it wasn't his parish anymore; he didn't even get a vote. She stood once more against the Aga, wondering whether she had the right to reach out to comfort him - terrified he'd push her away. Never mind they'd spent seven of the last nine nights together; there was still this part of him she couldn't touch.

And yet, the next thing he asked was, "Assumpta, what should I do?"

Her answer surprised even herself: "I think you should be there tomorrow morning. And I think if he's awful, we can find out if another parish nearby is more to your liking. Figure out how to get you there Sunday mornings. Meantime I'll give you all the room you need to pray here at home."

His eyes had already been wet, but now they were brimming. She could tell he was moved by her understated respect for his beliefs, and that he knew he was the one who'd rekindled it in her. A vote of confidence. Trust across a big divide. Never a_ snowball's _chance, and still here they were.

The embrace gave them both some sense of renewal before Fiona burst in, interrupting.

"Okay, it sounds dumb, but hear me out: what if we all wore naughty costumes?!"

"Taps!" yelled Assumpta, her eyes shooting sparks.

"Right, right, right!" Fiona retreated. "Just think about it," she called over her shoulder.

"Been talking to Niamh, then?" Peter guessed.

"Yup."

"Between those two and Andy, it's a wonder we've any food left over at all."

"Tell me about it." She looked back over her shoulder, a quiet acknowledgment that they should both get back to work. The hug dissolved. They dragged their hands along each other's arms until the hands clasped, then let go of the hold one reluctant finger at a time.

"Can't wait for last orders," he whispered.

"Forget last orders," she said. "Where's bedtime already?"


	26. Chapter 26: Epiphany (Observed)

Peter took care not to reach St. Joseph's too early. He had several reasons, and he knew they were all petty.

Sunrise in this place was hitting between 8:30 and 8:45 this time of year, for one thing, and Mass was back to the austere 9:00 time slot he'd so long pushed against. Peter had always disliked stained glass with dark skies behind it - it seemed so eerie, like a ghost of the figure represented in it. Late night vigils at least offered candlelight, and when the fixtures inevitably came on there was the comfort of knowing that the light from inside the church was beaming out through the windows, making them sparkle for the world outside. Winter mornings were simply bleak on both sides of the glass.

He also hoped to find the place reasonably crowded on the Sunday closest to Epiphany, and perhaps even more so with the new priest's arrival. He wanted to disappear into the back of the congregation. He wanted to approach the rail with his arms crossed over his chest for a blessing only, but no Communion - not yet. Maybe not until his official release from the vow he had broken again last night...and still couldn't really bring himself to regret.

He also left room for the possibility that Father Dave might test his limits once the sermon rolled round. He wanted to be able to leave if he needed to, though the notion broke his heart. He took to his knees and braced his arms on the back of the pew ahead.

He'd come so far since the start of Christmas. Here it was today, over and not quite over, the same as his vows. The same as life as he knew it. It had turned out not to be leaving his vocation that was the hardest part; it was, he now realised, understanding just how out-of-step he'd been all along.

He thought he was safely hidden in the last pew until the Egans slipped in beside him just as the bell began to ring. _So much for reflection in solitude._

Niamh looked over at Peter and seemed to recognize the despair in his eyes. As Kathleen began her well-intentioned massacre of the processional hymn, they lifted the kneeler and took to their feet. Niamh boldly squeezed his hand. He noticed how swollen her fingers had become. The guilt of abandoning the promised christening overwhelmed him.

* * *

Assumpta could only guess what had happened at Mass. A number of her boarders had gone, perhaps expecting to find a stripper pole at the altar, or lap dances on the chancel steps. She had her ex to thank for that. A good portion of the usual brunch crowd was also late in coming - rare churchgoers like Brendan, no doubt assessing the new curate's performance. She was equally as eager for their reports as she was to put the whole mess out of her mind. She hadn't liked what she saw of Father Tierney the night before (and she now refused to call him "Dave"), but she found to her own surprise that a part of her wanted to be proven wrong.

It had to be Peter's influence. Same thing that had made him a good priest. She hadn't quite gotten over the sense that she'd robbed the parish of the best they would ever have; whether they'd "deserved" him...well, that was debatable.

Just as she was about to feel guilty for making money off the scandal she herself had caused, the first wave of lodgers arrived, queuing up to cancel their stays. She attempted to talk them down from the ledges, but succeeded only in reminding them they might want to retrieve their belongings before they handed in their room keys. All were irate: half because the homily had shown them the errors of their ways, and the other half because the priest hadn't winked back at them when they took the cup. _Let it roll off your back,_ Assumpta could almost hear her mother say. _There're people in the world who spin like weather vanes, any way the wind blows. They'd never have been here in the first place if they weren't the kind. _She realised she had Leo to thank for this, too. She hoped the survival of his career was worth it. She knew she wouldn't likely be back in touch to find out.

The regulars drifted in between subsequent waves of irate tourists. The locals were irate, too, but for different reasons - reasons that drove them straight to the bar. As each complainer aired his or her grievances, Fiona gently set a beverage in front. In a couple of short nights, she'd gotten a good enough sense of everyone's usual.

"Can you imagine!" Siobhan growled. "Lording over us our 'spinsters and bachelors,' our 'childless couples.'"

"Our single parents," Padraig added, indignant.

"'An epidemic of creeping intellectual elitism, interfering in our relationship with God,'" Brendan quoted.

"And a 'hopeless obsession with money,'" added Brian.

"'And sex,'" said Niamh, pouting theatrically. Ambrose coughed.

"This is the same bloke who was sipping double-bock all night?" said Andy, lugging down the stairs as if he'd just woken up. Assumpta shot a look at Fiona, who affected her best innocent shrug.

Finally, about ten minutes after the last boarder handed in his key, Peter appeared in the doorway. Assumpta had an Irish coffee ready for him. He accepted it eagerly, nodding toward the phone. She nodded back.

* * *

Burt Hamilton preferred to unwind after major liturgical feast days with a single malt scotch and a good cigar, then a hot bath before he rejoined polite society. Tonight also held plans for dinner with Maggie, and he knew better than to show up reeking of smoke. Still, it was not unheard of for a parishioner to ring in the late afternoon, and he was always careful to keep the cordless handy during his customary soak.

The surprise today was just whose parishioner was ringing. He made a deliberate effort to keep still in the water. He'd become quite adept at it over the years. He saw no actual sin in it, but he knew the faithful would be happiest _not_ picturing him naked as they conversed.

He turned his attention now to the former priest everyone in _the time zone_ had now pictured naked.

"Peter, I welcome the call, but..." he checked himself. "What's the matter?"

"Have you ever had trouble with authority?"

"Consider for a moment the faith I converted to, Peter. Rather steeped in trouble with authority."

"I mean personally."

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

Peter paused for a moment, no doubt choosing his words with care.

"New curate is a cynical blowhard and he's alienated everybody."

Burt chuckled. "Feeling like you've left the flock in bad hands, are you?"

"Have you ever seen it happen?"

"Of course."

"How do you keep it from getting in the way of your faith?"

"Peter, I hope you're not contemplating a conversion. Your mother'll-"

"Take us both out back and shoot us, I know. I'm not. I just...from a failed priest to a successful one, how do you handle it?"

"First of all, I wouldn't call you a _failure._" Burt brought his toes above the surface of the water and admired them, or rather, admired that he could still see them past his belly. "Some of us have the good fortune to choose the church before we heed the calling. I'd never have done it if I had to give up what you did. I admire you very much for the courage that must've taken."

"Well, you're very kind, but as we've seen-"

"Peter, forgive me; I've strayed from the point. I think you and I are probably much alike. I think we both went into that line of work to begin with because we saw things that needed fixing. Not just in my church, not just in yours, but in the small-c definition of 'catholic.' In the universal church. Christian faith at large. Am I anywhere near?"

"Yes," came the younger man's voice, sounding a little cracked, but with light bleeding through it.

"I don't think you could be expected to stop noticing room for improvement just because you're a layman again."

"But what do I do with it now my outlet's gone?"

"Find another outlet. Matter of fact, do what women have done throughout your church's history."

"I can't be a nun."

"Hope not; we already know you'd be rotten at it. Take up the pen. Raise a little hell. Do like all those troublemakers on your mother's bookshelf. The Catholic Church can handle it; you lot never would've made it this far without a few pains-in-the-arse among the ranks."

"Never thought I'd be begging an Anglican for his counsel." There was a tired warmth in his voice now.

"Never thought I'd be urging a Catholic to keep the faith. Suppose that's what makes us Maggie's men, nah?"

"You're right," Peter said.

"Speaking of: how's your brother? Staying out of trouble?"

"Nonsense. Why would he start now?"


	27. Chapter 27: The Egg Timer

_So, back at the start of Chapter 14, I promised I'd eventually speed things up a bit. Here it starts. Sorry if the pacing change causes any whiplash. We're nearing the end of this one, maybe a couple chapters more. The new job starts Wednesday, the new semester soon after, and I already have a __**ridiculous**__ idea for my next one. So I plan to wrap this up by the Feast of Epiphany._

_Oh, and I'm well aware of my tendency toward the WAFFy. But I did spend a lot of visibility on this M rating, and I fully intend to use it again before all is said and done - though not just yet. Maybe my _nom de plume_ should have been Pervy-Slow McWaffington. Sort of rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Live and learn..._

* * *

As the bizarre surprise tourist season ended, quick as it began, a certain feeling of new-normal descended in its place. Change has a funny way of highlighting the unchanged things around it, and so it was that Assumpta noticed Peter was almost hearing a regular stream of confessions across the remote end of the bar. They seemed to run deeper than the troubles punters wilfully shared with her, and she was surprised by the smallness of her jealousy.

Regulars also seemed to respect a sort of "buffer zone" when one of their own had Bartender Peter cornered. Kathleen Hendley even reported once or twice, never sharing her whole conscience, but always murmuring about how glad she'd be when the interim was off to make room for Timmy Rheen. Peter found himself oddly happy at the mention of young Timmy's name. Indeed, the capable young auto wrecker would be a welcome change from the present setup. The forgiveness bubbling up in Peter's heart made him feel more like a good Catholic again. A better one, anyway, if still miles from perfect.

Kevin O'Kelly and Fionn enjoyed a visit as each recuperated from his recent injuries. When the time came to remove Fionn's collar, Assumpta let Kevin do the honours. Fionn brightened immediately upon discovering he was finally out of the portable tunnel, rewarding his favourite young man with a lick to the face. Brendan gave Peter a knowing smile.

Proceeds from what Niamh called the "Great Sex Rush of 1998" (though everyone was begging her to stop) were strong enough to provide for some refurbishments to the pub, including some plumbing and electrical work that needed attention.

Fiona and Andrew went their separate ways home after a week's stay each, with Andy agreeing to be in touch if he ever needed work in the Dublin area - and then both agreeing to be in touch regardless. Assumpta wondered if they'd end up a permanent partnership of any kind, but she didn't press them. Niamh was growing bigger by the day, now, and seemed grateful to regain full custody of her best friend.

About that time, Doc Ryan happened in for a pint one evening and discreetly asked Assumpta how all was going with the device. He recommended a follow-up appointment to check for any placement complications, and it suddenly occurred to her:

She couldn't remember whether she was late.

Siobhan had been overhearing in her non-intrusive fashion and seemed to notice the quiet alarm on Assumpta's face. She waited until Michael had departed to announce her plan.

"Tomorrow, we're going to the pharmacy."

"Siobhan..."

"In Cilldargan. No one'll recognise us. If they do, I'll say the tests are for veterinary use."

"Is that a done thing?"

"If you don't know, how will the clerk?"

"I don't need a chaperone, Siobhan."

"Oh, it'll be fun. I'll take one as well. Moral support and all."

Assumpta acquiesced. She'd been through one scare of her own before, at seventeen, and she'd never told anyone - merely sweated it out herself and given silent thanks as she buried the evidence away in a library washroom. She'd later seen Fiona through her own tough decision. She knew the possibility was remote, but...well, stranger things had happened. She had been careless that first night. Nothing was certain. And if something _had _happened, what effect would the device have on the outcome? What would need to be done?

Peter noticed a sense of remove that night as they undressed for bed.

"I won't pry, but if there's anything..." he let himself trail off.

"I can't remember if I should have had a period by now," she blurted out.

He paused to breathe, once he remembered how. "Oh."

"Now, it really is unlikely..."

"But not impossible."

"Right. Siobhan said we'll go into town tomorrow...buy a kit, just to be sure."

"Okay."

"I thought about not telling you unless it turned out to be something, but it didn't seem right."

Peter offered his arms. She burrowed shakily into them.

"What do you think about these things?" he said cautiously, too vaguely.

She looked up at him. "Which things?"

"Marriage. Babies. Not right now, but in the long term."

Assumpta swallowed. "Here's how I've always seen it. There's loving someone at all, okay?"

"...Okay."

"And that really is a lot. I never told anyone I loved them before you. It's...a _lot._"

"Yes."

"And then there's loving someone enough to agree to be with him until you die. That's a lot more. More than most people realise, I think."

"I agree."

"Still with me?"

"I am."

"All right. Even more is loving someone enough to want to make _more of him. _That's really quite a bit and I think a lot of people don't understand. Just do it 'cos it's compulsory." She turned in his arms, met his eyes.

He didn't look away.

"Peter, I've never felt like that before. Never thought I'd recognise it up close. Here it is, without a doubt. Whatever happens, I'll face it. Always have. But given the option...I'd like some time to just be us, first. I wonder every day what might have happened if my parents had actually thought about that."

Neither of them felt especially amorous in the shadow of that night's discussion. He merely held her close until both of them settled into a light, fragile sleep.

* * *

The ladies' room at the chemist's left much to be wished for in ambiance. Paper towels littered the floor, crude inscriptions lined the walls, and the toilets were uniformly unflushed.

"Not here," Assumpta wailed. "Home. Please."

Siobhan's bladder was full to bursting, but she agreed. This was not _her _moment of truth, she reasoned.

Back at the pub, Peter feigned ignorance as the two women marched for the toilets. It was the toughest acting he'd ever undertaken - much harder than playing a lovestruck priest in "Ryan's Mother" would have been.

In the much-cleaner pub washroom, Siobhan made a beeline for a stall. Assumpta first pulled out her hair elastic and wrapped it around the handle end of her tester, to be sure which was hers.

Just in case it mattered.

It was an agonising fifteen minutes.

When the egg timer went off, Assumpta had herself too worked up to walk in and look. Siobhan went in for her.

The vet emerged looking even paler than usual.

"Oh, God," Assumpta whispered.


	28. Chapter 28: Probably a Wedding Reception

A few seconds' silence might as well have been forty days in the desert. Finally, Siobhan shook her head. "You're not pregnant, Assumpta."

The young couple sighed with relief.

Now Siobhan blinked twice.

"But I am."

Peter and Assumpta went wide-eyed as their friend held up her evidence.

As it happened, Brendan chose that exact moment to walk through the door. His paperback landed on the floor in an awkward split.

Brendan and Siobhan both looked at Assumpta, and Assumpta immediately sensed their need for a private conversation. Unable to leave the pub unattended, she did the next best thing and gave them a room key.

Peter watched the silent march up the stairs.

"Sure they're both in shock," Assumpta said.

"Kid'll be lucky, though, with the pair of them."

"True enough," she said, reflecting on the beautiful job Brendan had done as her own surrogate father. "Can't think of two better people to throw for that loop."

It was an hour and a half before they emerged. Both looked a bit rumpled, and strangely relaxed in light of the blindsiding news. Their juniors behind the bar pretended not to notice 'till they were out of earshot.

"Peter?"

"Hm?"

"Get the sheets changed in 3, will you?"

He nodded.

* * *

Time sped up as winter turned to spring. Ambrose surprised everyone by serving as Niamh's midwife in the back of the unfueled Garda car. Peter fell in love with baby Kieran at first sight, and found himself awash in gratitude that he himself might someday have a chance at fatherhood. Father Dave Tierney's sermons were found to soften considerably if he visited his flask before Mass. Perhaps it was his interim status that made him hard to take seriously. Perhaps it was his unapologetic eye-rolling from the pulpit. Father Mac found himself wondering if the new curate's relationship with the bottle might be grounds to send him on retreat.

Three huge pieces of news arrived the week of Peter's birthday in May. First was the announcement of Timmy's ordination, to be held at St. Joseph's with Father Mac and Bishop Costello preaching and presiding. Peter and Assumpta held hands discreetly in the fifth pew. Niamh sighed with relief at the chance to finally schedule Kieran's christening. Though Timmy's uncle was officially his confessor, even the newly-minted curate sometimes came by the bar to bend Peter's ear with concerns that didn't quite suit that relationship. Peter was honoured by the young man's trust, and he hardly ever threatened him with homicide anymore.

Next was the announcement that His Holiness had released Peter from his vow of celibacy. The mail arrived as Assumpta was out, and in his urgency to tell someone, he phoned his mother.

The third news bulletin was hers. "Peter, they've found a distant recurrence."

His elation froze in place, then plummeted and shattered. "Where?"

"Two spots in my right lung. And potentially one on the brain."

"Mum!"

"Look, Peter, we'll take one more crack at it with the chemo, but...I want to be sure I get to meet this girl whilst I'm still here. Whilst I'm still _me._"

By the time Assumpta returned, she found a tear-stained Peter alone at the bar with a pint of lager in hand and the lights out above him. She put her arms around him and let him explain in his own time.

* * *

They closed the pub for a couple nights to visit Manchester. Assumpta had never been more nervous in her life, and Peter found he had little luck getting her to relax at any point along the journey. No assurances seemed to be working, and she refused a drink either in-flight or at the airport on arrival.

When Mary Margaret opened her door to them, it was an hour 'til dinner. She called down Andrew, who ported their bags to the boys' old bedroom. Ushering them into the sitting room, she outfitted both of them with a_ kir de peche._

Peter examined the wine cocktail with a familiar cocked eyebrow. "Since when do we do this?"

"Since a couple things. Since I remembered what it was like to meet your father's family, for one. And since your brother got into amateur bartending."

"I'm a bit to blame for that," called down a familiar lilting soprano.

Assumpta took great care not to lose her drink out her nose. "What're you doing here?"

"Visiting my boyfriend, try to talk him into coming and working for me in Dublin. Oh! And being a witness."

"Kate'll be along soon as well," Maggie said. "Few things to pick up, decorations and so on," she gave Peter a knowing look.

He turned to Assumpta. "Hope that's all right. I know you said you didn't want a fuss."

"They all know, then?"

Mary Margaret smiled. "Word gets round fast, I'm afraid. You two come with me. Something to show you."

She led them into her room, and presented a small rectangular box with two rings inside.

"You're under no obligation to use them if they're not your taste, but before George died, we agreed that the first of the children to marry would have the first chance at them. Back then, we even held out a little hope for you," she said, grinning at her middle son.

The young couple exchanged tearful looks.

"They're beautiful," Assumpta said. "I'd be honoured, but..." she turned to Peter, signalling it was up to him.

"Mum," he began.

"Peter, let me do this."

"No, I just...will Kate murder me when she finds out?"

"Only a little."

"The usual, then."

* * *

On their last morning in town, Father Burt married them in a simple ceremony in the garden, in ordinary Sunday dress. Kate got a giggle fit during the vow exchange, and soon the only sober-faced guest was Zoe.

"Anglican vows, in this family," Mary Margaret joked later. "Who'd have thought?"

"Perfect balance between the old church and the unchurched," Burt cracked. "Just ask anyone."

From there it was straight to the airport, where they played their favourite game, "Illicit-Couple-Spotting." Assumpta found herself praying for some of the couples to find their way into the light.

When they returned to Ballykissangel, Niamh had proudly prepared "Probably a Wedding Reception" in their honour, having Liam and Donal cross out the first word on the banner once the couple presented the documentation to prove it was official. Brendan delivered a marvelous toast, quoting by turns both James Herriot and Dorothy Day. (Father Mac bribed him with a pint to drop the Carlo Martini references.)

The fourth time Assumpta caught Peter's eyes drifting up the stairs was somewhere between that toast and the expected cake-cutting. She finally called him on it.

"I'm all for sneaking off, but we'll escape no one's notice if we go up there," she whispered.

"We don't have to sneak," he breathed back sheepishly.

"With everything that's been going on, we've barely touched each other in days. Like hell we won't sneak." The devilish glimmer was in her eyes.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

"Don't you dare, Mr. Making-up-for-my-twenties. I'll be damned if you're going to waste what's left of mine." She tapped Niamh on the shoulder and, with a cheek kiss, pressed the cake server into her hand. Niamh was about to protest when she noticed the cash bribe wrapped around the handle. Brightening, she shrugged and ushered the two of them out the back door. When Brendan heard the van's ignition out a nearby window, he bit his tongue.

It wasn't enough to pin down his smirk.

* * *

_One chapter left to go, and I bet you can guess what I'm using it for! _


	29. Chapter 29: An Electrical Storm

_Big thanks again to anyone who's stayed with me thus far. I've had a lot of fun writing it, and it's been a nice way to keep busy between jobs. I do have another in the works, but I might post the whole thing at once for logistical reasons. (I'll explain when I get there.)_

_Now, as promised, a little naughty to go with your WAFF. Happy New Year, where applicable!_

* * *

Peter gave up on asking where Assumpta was taking him several minutes before she parked in Cill Na Sidh woods.

"You want your wedding night here?"

"No, we'll sleep in bed like civilised people. I merely want a little time alone with you here." She shot a meaningful look. "Maybe just an hour."

After nearly half a year together, and for that matter three years since they'd met, the sound of her voice saying things like that still had an immediate effect on him. He dropped the rest of his planned interrogation:_ In a van? At our age? When everyone we know is back at the pub...?_ As he ran them off in his mind, they all suddenly sounded inspired.

He reached for her hand, clasping it between both his own, admiring the ring he'd slipped onto it just hours earlier. And the ring she had placed on his.

"You won't get too cold?"

"Figure you'll come in handy there. And I always have a blanket," she nodded over the seat back.

"Have you, now!"

"Never know when you'll find some magnificent thing wandering the roadside in the pouring rain."

He only noticed now that a drizzle had set in, and was working its way quickly toward something more like a downpour. Condensation and breath were once again blurring the windows.

She jumped out the driver-side door.

"Assumpta!" He followed suit, coming round to her side, pressing her against the side of the van. The kiss lasted an irrationally long time considering the inhospitable environment.

Neither of them was properly attired for rain; her silk sheath dress was soon clinging provocatively to her every curve, and his dress shirt was now more translucent than off-white. A loud thunderclap interfered with what he wanted to whisper. He noticed it hadn't come too long after the lightning. He opened the sliding door behind her and pushed her into the safety of the cargo bed.

There was a blanket back there, all right - and two pillows. She'd planned this! He made sure the windows were closed, the doors locked, and - always, always - the hand brake set. He jettisoned his muddy shoes, and then took a moment to look at her in the scant light. Wet strands of hair were dripping down onto her collarbone. He leaned in close and chased a rivulet with his mouth, then another, enjoying the reflexive bucking of her hips as he reached just the right spot on her neck. He'd gotten very good at locating that spot, and he looked forward to a lifetime of exploiting it now.

Just as he was congratulating himself for this, he felt her brush a hand over his fly to gauge her own effect on him. He grew even harder with her touch, and the movement of her hand intensified in response. Wonderful as it felt, he wanted out of his wet clothes; more than that, he wanted her out of hers. He moved her hand up to his necktie, a plea to help him off with it. Once she succeeded she continued on to his buttons.

Didn't mean they_ had _to do things in proper order, of course. He slid a hand under the skirt of the dress, along her cool outer thigh, then in the warmth between them. He stroked over the silky gusset of her underwear, then under it, delicately at first, then more deliberately when he found exactly the place he wanted. As he perfected his rhythm, her coordination suffered, and she began tugging erratically at his shirt, singlet, and belt, until he helped himself out of them.

He now pulled her underwear off and resumed his careful efforts to ready her. Between his well-rehearsed free hand and her two trembling ones, his trousers and boxers came down easy enough. He reached around to her back zipper, pulling her dress down to reveal a lace bustier he had never seen before. The sight of it was intoxicating, but the feel of at least a half-dozen tiny hooks down the back was daunting.

She made a small whimper, and he realised her half-down sleeves now had her arms bound to her sides.

"Sorry!" he whispered, pulling off her dress the rest of the way. She reached behind herself and undid nearly all the hooks at once. Appreciating the help, he finished them and lifted it away, taking a moment to cherish the sight of her before he brought the blanket over them both and caressed her again beneath it. The second time she whispered_ "please," _he coaxed her on top of him, and she graced him with that delicious grateful moan she always gave when he penetrated her. He made little effort to muffle his own voice as he felt her surround him, but this position put her beautiful breasts well in reach to busy his mouth otherwise. He caught a nipple lightly between his lips, flicking his tongue side to side across it.

If the newness of their first time had been thrilling, it was a different thrill entirely tonight. In the unfamiliar dark of the woods, the noise of the storm, the limited accommodations of the van, they could test what they'd learnt about each other in the last several months. Show off a little, even. He savoured the hungry way she bounced above him, the sultry voice in his ear, the wet warmth tightening rhythmically with his thrusts, all encouraging him along. They moved faster, now, more forcefully, both crying "I love you," louder and louder, as if racing to see who could satiate the other first.

Assumpta won, but only just; as he surrendered within her, he felt her contract and release around him even faster, an unmistakable sign, at a speed as genuine as his own racing heartbeat. Finally she fell across him, shivering, his name on her lips.

He let her be the one to break away. She panted alongside him for a moment, then nestled right back against him, kissing his chest.

"Cold?" he checked again.

"Yeah," she admitted. She always was, afterward, even though they'd worked up a sweat. He engineered what had become the usual solution: resting his arm over the blanket as he pulled it up to her shoulder.

"Don't suppose our clothes would be magically dry by now," he said.

"Bit of a long shot," she murmured. "Too bad you took our suitcases upstairs when we got home."

"You asked me to!"

"Well, I knew we'd need the room back here later," she yawned.

"Clever girl," he breathed, putting his arm across her back. "Guess we'll just have to wait here for a bit."

Her head grew noticeably heavier on his chest, and he knew she had fallen asleep.

"Night, wife," he whispered against the silver noise of rain on the roof of the van. He thought back to her story about priests shining torches in windows. Reasonably certain no one would brave this weather, he was confident enough of his planned response if someone did. For now, he relaxed into the pillow, letting his own eyelids fall.


End file.
